


Bons Vivants

by stoprobbers



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chef AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bons vivants (n.) (french) plural, a person who is living the good life; someone who lives luxuriously and enjoys good food and drink</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amuse Bouche

At a large table at the very back of the gray-walled dining room sits a man with wild brown hair. He is half hunched over a sketchpad, head bent towards a ruddy-hared Scot and a much wilder ginger woman, elegant rainbows of wine in front of them.

Mixing bowls clink and blades meet cutting board with dull thuds but none of them pay any mind. The murmur of other voices is quiet, purposefully subdued. 

He sketches something roughly on the pad then reaches for one of two red wines.

"Scallops pan roasted with a touch of saffron and sea salt, three of them, bap, bap, bap," he says, pausing to take a sip, "Then this, reduced just a little, chill it down and into pearls. It'll look like salmon roe, but it's not. Crispy young fingerlings in the middle with pea shoots and the youngest arugula shoots, white balsamic and white pepper. You follow?"

"This one? You're sure?" the other man asks, taking a sip from his own glass. The woman just waits, fingers steepled under her nose, watching closely.

"Don't you think?"

"This one's lighter." The second man gestures 

"It's got the wrong notes, for saffron and scallops at least. We'll go with the Spanish one."

"Small pearls?"

"Yes. Like salmon roe. They'll ooze if you cut them, but let's hope they stay together so they can pop once you take a bite, yeah? And then the flowers, salted violets with a touch of chili, just around the sides."

All three pause, stare at the sketchpad, consider. The second man nods.

"Delicious."

"Brilliant," the wild-haired man clinks glasses and sips again, "Work with Zoe, please, she's ready."

"You got it."

"Ta, Jamie." The second man stands, wipes his hands on his whites and walks off towards the kitchen, calling for Zoe and the ingredients they need from the walk in. The redheaded woman leans a little closer, peering at the messy sketch.

"You're not an artist," she observes dryly. The man unleashes a wild, broad grin.

"Not with a pen, no."

"And modest to boot." She sits back, revealing the leather book she'd been resting her elbows on and gestures to it. "You ready to go over the book, Doctor?"

"Oh, it's the highlight of my day." This time it's not a sip from the wineglass but a draught. "All right, Donna. Who've we got tonight?" 

 

***

The woman at the counter is slight, delicate in face but not in hands. Her broad, strong fingers work the dough in her hands confidently but gently, watching butter and shortening spread but not fully incorporate, monitoring the flakes and controlling them carefully. Two more kneads and she stops, forms a ball and quickly wraps it in plastic, smoothly depositing it in a fridge. At the front of the dining room the door jingles open and loud, joking voices drift in. A man she knows well says something she can't quite understand and a round of laughter erupts. She grins, grabs the ball of dough she'd made an hour ago, and returns to the counter.

"Oi, boss," a youthful black man calls with a grin as a short row of chefs clomps good-naturedly into the kitchen. He sees a steaming pot on the stove and wanders over to it, peering in curiously and taking a long sniff. "What's this?"

"What's it look like?" she teases. A generous spread of flour, on counter and hands and pin, and she begins to roll the dough out.

"Tonight's special, then."

"Be useful, Mickey; grab one of the stouts and add it to the steak, yeah?"

"Yeah, boss," he says as the other chefs begin to organize their stations, trooping one by one into the walk-in for plastic bins of onions, potatoes, garlic and herbs, carrots and celery already chopped, animal parts that need to be butchered for dinner. They chatter amongst themselves as they get to work.

Mickey does as he's asked, dumping a bottle of stout into the steaming pot before putting his knives at his station and walking back to the blonde woman who's already begun fitting dough to small cast iron skillets.

"So what's this, then? Are you really…?"

She looks up at him and grins, a teasing smile that lights up the room almost as much as it lights up her face, the very tip of her tongue just barely poking out form between her teeth.

"Fancy a steak and kidney pie for dinner?"

"You're kidding."

"Crème fraiche and potato puree, caramelized on top with the torch, fresh peas with garlic scapes and white wine. Do you doubt me?"

"Not for a second, Rose." He grins fondly at her for a moment. "They've got your reputation all wrong, you know. You're as much of a crazy genius as any of them. Just without the gadgets."

"Why thank you," she murmurs, dipping her knees in the smallest of curtsies. "Now, get to work. You're on puddings tonight."

"Yes, chef!"

 

***

It's late enough for the streets to be mostly empty and almost quiet, but the air is steamy and still as the Doctor pushes his way out the back door of the restaurant with a wave to his staff and a chorus of "goodnight, chef!" following him from the handful of people still closing up. The humidity hits him full in the face as the door closes behind him and he grimaces. Lovely.

He's tired, aching after service, but his mind is moving, buzzing, and his blood is still fizzing, thick with the adrenaline he still craves after all these years. If he turns right, he can catch the bus home and be in his bed within a half hour. If he turns left, there's a bar a ten minute walk away that always has a pint ready for him after a shift and usually isn't  _too_  crowded with younger chefs who may want to bend his ear too far after a 15 hour day.

He pauses for a moment, thinks as his calves ache and demand he make a decision.

In the end he can't say why, but he turns left.

The bar on the corner doesn't have a name just a vivid blue door that reveals a space everyone swears is bigger on the inside. It would be a pub, should be a pub, but Wilf, the gent who owns it, used to be a chef himself and wanted a place that would be open at 3 a.m. when the line cooks were coming off and the prep cooks were getting ready to head in. No menu there, just a rotating set of small dishes that appear on the polished walnut bar. a fantastic selection of beer and whiskey, and a 5 a.m. last call.

He walks there in something like a daze, t-shirt damp and itchy where the strap of his messenger bag runs across his chest, but before he knows it he's pulling open that big, blue, beloved door and smiling into the cooler air inside. He closes his eyes for a moment, basking in the feeling of being out of a hot kitchen and a hot night, and when he opens them he sees his favorite stool at the rounded corner is open.

"Ah, Wilf," he calls as he saunters over to it, feeling more relaxed already, "you didn't have to save my seat!"

"Who said I'd do a thing like that?" Wilf's voice floats over before his face, lined and grizzled and covered in a light gray beard, pops around the corner that leads to the bar's small, probably-not-legal kitchen. "Your stench lingers when you go, no one wants to go near it."

" _My_ stench?" he laughs as he shifts in closer. "You sure it's not you, old man?"

"Nah, the ladies can't get enough of me." He gives Wilf a grin as he peels off his bag and settles fully on the stool, and when he looks back up there's a small bowl of spiced roasted almonds in front of him and the older man is pouring a pint. "Aw, just nuts tonight? C'mon, Wilf, you can do better than that."

"What, you want a full English? Drink your beer, maybe you'll get a bit of nice by the end of the night."

The beer sloshes over the sides of the glass as Wilf drops it in front of him and then he's gone, back into his kitchen and Jack, his favorite bartender chatting up a nice-looking blonde fellow all the way at the other end of the bar.

With a deep sigh, the Doctor takes a long drink of the cold beer and closes his eyes, letting it slide down his throat. Without even meaning to the prep list for the next evening pops to mind and he scans through it slowly, thinking through minor changes and adjustments, pondering where to go next. The summer menu looms and it's not done, not even close. His fault, really, for settling on 'Barcelona' when it was still winter.  There's still potential, though; he's close, he thinks, to working a  _porron_  wine pour into the meal somewhere.

Maybe with the pork?

Behind him the door of the bar slams open and a crowd of young, enthusiastic voices suddenly take over the formerly quiet space. He keeps his eyes closed and his back to what are probably waiters and waitresses, maybe even a host, just off work. A fun bunch, it sounds like, but not tonight, not for him.

Of course they choose to order drinks right beside him, the screeching of wooden stools on wooden floors like nails on his mental chalkboard. He's jostled a bit and receives a half-distracted "sorry, mate," for his trouble, and Jack is flirting now, with the boys and girls alike he knows, he can tell by the sound of his voice. After several minutes of kerfuffle half the group has adjourned to play a surprisingly high stakes round of darts (and he's almost tempted to watch that, just to see if this Mick bloke really will have a smoke outside with his trousers  _and_  pants 'round his ankles, and how quickly he'll be arrested for it) and the air around him begins to settle. The commotion has effectively wiped thoughts of tomorrow night's dinner service out of his head, but he's still wired, still jazzed, and he thinks he's almost done with his beer.

He opens his eyes to check and they land automatically on a head of blonde hair seated opposite him at the corner.

The hair is wild and pulled back into a haphazard bun that has come loose in front, framing a strong, angular face with wide brown eyes and even wider, fuller lips. He lingers on those lips for a long moment before he realizes he's staring at a complete stranger, and one that's now smiling wryly at him to boot.

"Er," he says eloquently. Her smile widens and the tip of a pink, perfect tongue pokes out between her teeth.

Jack reappears before she can say anything with two pints and two shots of amber liquor. He sets a pint in front of each of them, and then a shot as well. The Doctor frowns.

"You looked like you could use one," the woman says, running her finger around the rim of her shot glass. Her hands are small but not delicate and somehow that makes it all the more mesmerizing for him. Her hands are strong but her wrists and forearms are slim and muscular in ways he finds startlingly alluring. Before he can respond, she lifts her shot. "Cheers."

"Cheers," he replies and they clink the glasses lightly together before downing the shot in tandem. It burns as it slides down his throat: whiskey.

"Oh that’s all right," the woman murmurs appreciatively, taking in a long breath through her nose before turning to her beer. "I'm Rose, by the way. Rose Tyler."

"Thank you for the shot Rose Tyler," he says, waiting until she's had a sip to extend his hand. "I'm–well, my friends just call me the Doctor."

"The Doctor?" she asks, shaking firmly. He likes that. "Are we friends already, then?"

"Well, you've bought me a shot which is a ritual generally reserved for friends," he points out, taking another sip of his beer and nudging the untouched bowl of almonds so that it's between them, fighting the urge to nudge his stool closer as well. "I'd say we're off to a good start."

"Well then, mate, I feel it's my duty as a friend to inform you that you look  _knackered_ ," she laughs. "Long night?"

"Long month. Long year. Long life."

"Oof, how long's it been since you've had a night off?"

"Far too long." He grins into his drink, "You look lovely, what's your secret?"

"Oil of Olay," she deadpans, but softens it with a wink. "Or maybe something about youth and naïve optimism? I hear that one a lot. Or maybe I've just missed so much sleep I've achieved a kind of nirvana. The Buddha had great skin, after all."

"Oh yes, I like you Rose Tyler," he grins and tips his pint glass to her for another toast and she obliges. Then he waves Jack over.

"Another round," he says, pointing to their shot glasses, "And this time, Jack, make it the good stuff." 

 

***

He lost track of time ages ago, minutes perhaps but he guesses it's hours, and if he looks hard over the angular London rooftops he swears he can see the smallest sliver of light pink where the sun is just beginning to rise. He hopes that's just the booze talking, but even if it's true and he's in for one hell of a service tomorrow (today?), he thinks it's worth it.

Next to him, leaning heavily into his arm as she laughs at something Jack is saying, is a beautiful blonde named Rose who he's known for just a grain of sand's worth of time in the grand scheme of his life, and she's warm and funny and really quite impressive at holding her liquor and the more he's spoken to her since she bought him that first shot the more he's become quite sure he wants to know what her favorite kind of whiskey is and what it tastes like on her tongue. He's been staring at her mouth all night and he thinks she knows it because he  _swears_  that tongue has gotten more playful, and more aggressive, as the night's gone on. That tongue, it's flirting with him even more than its owner.

As Rose slides down his arm, overcome with laughter and drink, he grabs her hand, lacing their fingers tightly as he keeps her mostly upright and oh, oh, it feels so right.

"You are a  _cad,_ " she is saying, to Jack, not to him, and even as she rights herself and takes a drag from the cigarette in her other hand, she doesn't let go of him. He feels warm under his collar and it's not the still-sticky night.

"And  _you_  are sloshed," Jack counters, taking in the two of them with a sly, knowing smile. It makes the Doctor want to blush and want to fight at the same time. "I've gotta go back inside to deal with the last of your idiots. Make sure she gets to bed safe."  
  
"Bye, Jack!" She still holds onto his hand as she throws her other arm around the bartender and he gives her a laughing hug right back before stepping inside. Instead of returning to the wall, though, she pulls him out with her into the middle of the street.

"He's right, it's time for bed," and the way she says it, it almost makes his knees weak. He's left his whites in there under the bar but he's got his bag and that's got his phone and his keys and he can get the whites tomorrow, he's got plenty.

"How far is home?" he asks as she stops and let go of his hand. He firmly does not acknowledge how much his heart sinks when she does. Instead of walking away, though, she takes two steps to his left, stands in the street, and peers curiously into the darkness.

"It's… that way!" she proclaims, pointing straight ahead of her then pauses, shakes her head, "I think."

"Maaaaybe it's time to get you a cab, eh?"

"Oh yes," she says and grabs his hand again, pulling him off jauntily towards a larger road. They walk in comfortable quiet for a block as she finishes her cigarette and focuses on keeping her steps mostly straight before stopping again. He stops as well, looks at her, waiting.

"I want to," she confesses after a short pause. "I want to, I really do, but Jack is right, I am sloshed and I'm working tomorrow. I bet you are too. Can we again, though? This thing, this–"

She's slurring a little bit and he feels bad for her, knows she's going to be hurting in the morning, but the way she's gesturing between them, and at their clasped hands, it makes him feel dizzier than all the drinks they've had tonight. She loses her words for a moment and the way her nose scrunches up when she does is adorable, but she gets back on track quickly enough.

"I like this thing. I want to do this thing again, and more things too, but tonight I think I need to sleep. I definitely need to sleep."

"Yes you do," he murmurs, pulling her in close to his side and setting off towards the wider road again, pleased to find he's not disappointed. He likes this thing, too. "Let's get you a cab and home to your bed."

"Mmm, bed, I like bed," she murmurs and then they are quiet again and the road, it's far too close to them and filled with far too many taxicabs already for his liking. Even as drink and sleep pull hard on him, he doesn't want this moment to end, not when her hand is warm in his and she smells like fresh pastry and whiskey and cigarette smoke. They stand on the sidewalk, looking for cabs with their top lights on, but she pipes up again after a moment.

"Do you?"

"Sorry?" he turns to her, brows raised in confusion, "Do I what?"  
  
"Like this thing too? You never said."

He didn't? "I didn't?"

"Not out loud, did you say it in your head?" 

"I like this thing too," he says instead of admitting that's exactly what he did. "And I agree. About doing it again."  
  
"Good," she says with a smile and a nod and then turns back to the street and lifts her arm. A cab is pulling over in seconds. She turns to him, her eyes clearer than he thought they were just a moment ago and smiles even wider, "Soon, yeah?"

"Yeah, yes," he says and finds he is frozen as she lifts herself up on tiptoe and drops a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Goodnight, Doctor."

She's already climbing into the cab when he finds his voice again. "Goodnight, Rose."

She says something to the driver and gives him another smile and a small wave as the cab drives off. He stands there on the street, fingertips at the spot where her lips just were, for a seemingly endless moment before the honk of a horn brings him out of his daze. There's another taxi there and the driver gestures for him to get in. It must really be late. He tells the man his address and closes his eyes as the cab pulls away, letting his blood settle to the smooth rhythm of a car navigating London streets.

He's halfway home when he realizes he forgot to get her number. 


	2. Chapter 2

He is utterly lost in her smile. The way she leans across the wooden barrier between them, her fingertips stroking the inside of his wrist and her hair is a blonde cloud of loose curls, like a halo. Her eyes — a shade of brown he's not sure he's seen before, far lighter than his and streaked with honey gold — sparkle as she laughs and the tip of her tongue, perfect and pink and wet and inviting, pokes out between white teeth and full lips. It is everything he can do not to just pitch forward and halt her laughter with his mouth, to taste her lips and tongue. He thinks he could compose menus around that flavor, thinks he will as soon as he samples it for himself.

He wonders why he hasn't tasted her yet and decides to sneak a sip. Her eyes are knowing as he tips his head forward, her chin lifting to meet his. She smell sweet, like flour and butter and rose petals, and he wonders if she will taste the same.

Three ungodly loud bangs — fist on wood — rocket him out of the dream and out of his bed. He lands on top of his dirty trousers from the night before in a heap of legs and blankets.

"DOCTOR! OPEN UP!"

Donna's voice is muffled by his door but only barely. It cuts through the remaining haze of his dream, clearing the cotton from his head and leaving him with harsh reality instead. Reality in which he is laying on the cold floor of his flat, hip throbbing from where he landed, head throbbing from last night's drinking and who knows how little sleep, and groin throbbing from… well.

He presses the heel of his hand into his erection, as if that will make it go away, but it does the opposite, brings about a rush of sensation and the scent of pastry and smoke and whiskey that makes him dizzy for a second.

"OI SPACEMAN!"

Donna's second shout, and the distant sound of jingling keys counteracts his touch and he scrambles up, reaching for a pair of pajama bottoms crumpled in the corner of his bedroom and hopping on one foot as he tries to rush for the door and get them on at the same time.

"Hold on, hold on," he shouts, making it to the door just as the deadbolt turns. He quickly opens it up. Donna has her key suspended in air, halfway between the deadbolt and the knob lock. She looks frustrated and is holding a paper bag that's slowly going translucent at the bottom from oil, or butter, or something like that. His stomach groans and grumbles, half in protest and half in hunger. The churning feeling is extremely unpleasant.

"Did you just wake up?" Donna asks as she pushes past him, leaving him standing in his own doorway, slightly stunned. "Oof, you must've, you need to clean your teeth."

"Good morning to you too, Donna," he says to the empty air and shuts the door, following her slowly in the kitchen. His head is throbbing and he makes a beeline for the sink, grabbing one of the glasses on the drying rack and filling it with water.

"Just barely," she replies, dropping her purse and the bag of pastries, he assumes, on the table and joining him in the kitchen. "Did you forget about our breakfast plans?"

"Plans?"

"Yes. Remember? Pastries? Meeting? Schedules? Orders? My holiday? Any of these things ringing a bell?"

"Um," he offers. She rolls her eyes.

"Go clean your teeth, your breath stinks. I'll make the tea. Go!"

In the bathroom, two ibuprofen are quickly swallowed. He examines his face as he brushes vigorously, the minty foam a welcome relief from the horrid taste he'd woken up with. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes and a thick shadow of stubble on his cheeks and chin, but he doesn't know if he trusts himself with a razor. His hair is matted on one side and sticking straight up on the other. After he rinses he combs a hand through it. It doesn't accomplish much. 

His vest is filthy, sweat-stained and stinking from last night's service so he strips it off and fishes a new one out of a half-open drawer and wishes he could take a shower. As he heads back out he glances at the clock and winces; it's half eleven.

"You look like hell," is what she greets him with, setting a mug of tea before him as he plunks down at his modest kitchen table. It's smells strong, double, maybe triple strength. Good. "Late night?"

He vaguely remembers the sun peaking over the edge of the horizon as he walked Rose out to the street, to the cab, and the way it had filled him with dismay until she'd reached up and pressed her mouth so softly to his. A smile comes, unbidden, and he tries to hide it in his tea before Donna can see.

Donna can see all, though. He doesn't stand a chance.

" _Late_  night?" she asks again, a new edge in her voice. "Spill it, or I won't finish making your eggs."

"You've already made them," he points out; the nose knows, and his head feels a little clearer now that he's got a spot of tea in him. "Don't hold out on me now."

"Should I be cooking for three?" The words slip out seemingly before the full implication of them settles in. Her wince is so exaggerated he feels slightly insulted, on Rose's behalf as well.

" _No_ ," he snips, "and  _yes_ , it was a late night. Went to Wilf's, got carried away."

"By who then?"  
  
"What makes you think there's a who?"  
  
"I saw that little grin," she points a spatula at him from across the countertop before finishing dumping the eggs onto a plate. "I know that little grin. Talk."

"So you booked the holiday, then?"

"Not about  _me,"_  Donna rolls her eyes and returns to his fridge, emerging after a brief dig with a bottle of hot sauce and a handful of parsley. "D'you want cheese?"

"No, plain'll be fine."

For a moment there is quiet, merciful quiet, but it doesn’t last. It never does.

"Is she a blonde?"

"Donna!"

"She  _is_ , isn't she?" She sets two plates of eggs on the table, taking the seat across from where he's left his mug, and proceeds to douse her eggs in hot sauce. "I know your type, Doctor, I've  _seen_  it."

"I don't have a type."

"Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, sunshine."

He doesn't want to talk about this, wants to hold this close to his chest for a little while at least, and in an effort to do something with his mouth other than talk he takes a bite of his eggs. His face contorts in a grimace almost immediately and he reaches desperately for his tea and toast.

"Ugh," he manages once he's swallowed, "How did you manage to muck up  _eggs_?"

Donna pauses, fork laden with eggs dripping bright red sauce halfway to her mouth. "They taste fine to me."

"I can't believe such a bad cook helped me launch my restaurant empire."

"You might be able to rack up the Michelin stars with a mere flick of your wrist, Doctor, but I can think up ideas you wouldn't come up with in a million years. I've just got that  _little_  extra spark of creativity you can't even dream of. So watch it."

The Doctor rolls his eyes and pushes his eggs away, reading instead of the bag of pastries. As he hoped, there are a couple of croissants and one of the cheese danishes he loves so well. The first bite of that is like a soothing balm for his soul and his distressed palate, still reeling from whatever Donna did to the eggs. His hungover stomach, well, that would come around.

"Ah," he says through the pastry, "that's better."

"Rude," Donna drawls with a roll of her eyes. "How do you think you're going to be able to bed this Rose with such appalling manners?" 

"My manners are impeccable, they–wait. I didn't tell you her name. Who told you her name?!"

It's Donna's turn to be at a loss for words. "Erm."

"It was Jack, wasn't it?"

"No!"

"Yes it was, who else would it be? It's not like you're sleeping with Wilf."

"I'm not sleeping with Jack, we just have fun sometimes."

"Yeah, Jack, you and the rest of London. You know he'll jump into bed with anything and anyone who looks at him twice."

"Well, he's very good--"

"Ah!" the Doctor pushes away from the table, waving his hands desperately in the space between them as if to physically clear the air. "Don't finish that sentence. Don't. Do not. Don't."

"Oh yes, so very well-mannered," she counters dryly. The Doctor shakes his head again, closing his eyes and trying to clear an image of Donna and Jack locked in passionate embrace from his mind. It doesn't work. He wants, for a moment, to think of Rose but worries that'll just add her into the vignette and it'll all be ruined. Instead, he opens his eyes and confronts the real thing. Well, half of it anyway, and she looks particularly displeased. "Are you done insulting me?"

"I wasn't insulting you. I just don't want to think of you like that."  
  
"Like what? A woman?"

"Someone who sleeps with  _Jack_."

"You should try it some time," she suggests, polishing off the last of her eggs with a perky bite, "He certainly wouldn't mind. Rose might."

"What did he tell you?"  
  
"That she's blonde, and sweet, and very pretty. Definitely interested in you; Jack said she's always got men hanging on her when she comes in but she never pays them any mind. Could match you with the whiskey which, by the way, earns her some respect from me and also makes me fear her a touch."

Her cool assessment leaves him momentarily speechless until a very important part of her little report sinks in. "Jack's seen her before?"

"Not quite a regular, not a stranger," Donna shrugs. "She works nearby."

"Did Jack say where?" He tries to keep his voice casual but sounds a little desperate all the same.

"Why's that matter? Aren't you just going to call her?"

"Donna, did Jack say where she works?" There is a long pause as he tries to avoid her probing stare.

"Oh my god," she finally says. "You didn't get her number. You drank yourself under the table and didn't go home with her and forgot to get her number! You berk!"

He wants to defend himself, wants to launch into a self-righteous tirade about how skillfully he'd flirted, how he'd drawn her in under his spell until she'd pressed her lips to his, but it's a flimsy argument at best (and one that's a little hazy and how much whiskey  _did_  they drink last night, anyway?) and the small marching band in his head has not fully subsided yet so he sets his elbows on the table, his face into his hands, and rubs at his forehead until Donna is done laughing at him.

It takes a while.

"Oh my god, you crazy alien," she finally manages. "You bloody Martian."

"I'm not from Mars."

"You may as well be," she snorts and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms across her chest. "Oh ho, but do you realize what this means? This means  _I_  have something  _you_  want."

"And what's that, then?"

"Information," Donna counters, leaning forward with a devious smirk. "I have information. Where she works. What she does. How to find her. So what's it worth to you, then, Doctor?"

  _Anything_. He'd do anything for that information; there is no way he's going to say that aloud. In the time it takes him to mull over the answer, though, Donna sees his whole hand. 

"Tell you what," she offers, reaching into the huge purse she's always toting around with her and pulling out a notebook that he thinks is simply egregiously large. "You're going to call the restaurant and let them know you won't be in the kitchen tonight and then you'll take a shower because, frankly, you stink, and then you and I will go through this entire notebook so I can go on my holiday, and then I'll take you out to dinner. Deal?"  
  
"And you'll tell me what you know about Rose," he adds, ignoring the urgent note in his own voice.

"Deal?" she asks again and there is something too knowing and unnerving in her eyes. He looks her over closely but she's as enigmatic as she can be. Finally he offers his mug of tea in a small toast.

"Deal." 

Donna smiles and clinks her mug with his.

 

*** 

Rose glares at the pan in her hand, basting the turbot delicately with butter on autopilot and wishing everyone would just disappear. The restaurant is busy, which would normally delight her, but there seems to be a small army in her head and a bigger army all around her, clanking pots and pans, crashing plates in and out of the dishwasher and, only slightly further, the din of dinner, clinking cutlery and conversation and the occasional louder toast. All in all it is the way she wants her restaurant to sound all the time, except for when she is hungover. And is she ever hungover.

Whiskey isn't her usual nightcap, at least not as much as she drank last night which is a hazy amount and therefore clearly a terrible idea. Still, visions of spiky hair and clear brown eyes and the scent of cracked pepper and rosemary smoke drift through her mind. She realized when she woke up that she hadn't gotten the Doctor's number, hadn't given him hers. She'll have to go back to Wilf's, find him again there; she can't go to Prydon, no. She knows who he is, realized it somewhere around the fourth shot. He's a star in their world, the rest of them just orbiting around him and trying to catch up with his cuisine, and she is  _not_  a starfucker. She liked  _him_. The kiss she gave him at the end of the night wasn't for The Three-Starred Michelin Chef Known As The Doctor, it was for a very good-looking bloke in a bar who seemed just as interested in her as she was in him. And she is  _very_  interested.

And she will find him, will summon the willpower to go back to Wilf's and try to catch him (but maybe not tonight, her stomach and her head protest at the thought of tonight), see him again, she's determined and oh shit, she's going to overcook the fish.

She snatches the pan away from the flame and turns so quickly she almost bashes straight into Mickey.

" _Behind_ ," he shouts pointedly and he didn't need to shout and she almost snaps right back at him but he's already moved on, halfway down the line to the fry station and refilling one of his hotel pans.

The turbot goes down over a small pile of minted peas and an apostrophe of pureed carrots and with a quick wipe of the plate it's off. Only after it's gone does she realize she doesn't remember finishing it.

"Back in five," she says to Shareen who's been on fish all night, just indulging her presence when she got tired of expediting. She'll go back up now; Mickey will end up weeded if she doesn't get him back on the line fully soon. She slips quietly out the back door, kicking an old piece of crate into the gap to keep it open, and fishes the emergency cigarette out of the pocket of her chef pants. She hates doing this during her shift, avoids it at all costs, but she feels like she's dying right now and dammit, she needs it.

She lights it guiltily. The feeling doesn't abate when the first drag feels good.

She dreamed of him last night; the way his forearm was warm where it pressed into hers, the feel of their fingers threaded together, how his lips were cool and soft when she kissed him good night. Waking up was cruel, and not just because of how ill she felt.

She loses herself in those thoughts for a moment and when she looks back down at her hand, the cigarette is done.

She stamps it out and makes a beeline for the sink, washing hands vigorously (twice) and grabbing a mint from the tin kept on top of the first aid kit. Kitchens are filled with smokers, she knows.

There is a small stack of receipts in the printer when she returns to the line, and her head pounds in response. But as she separates them out, calling orders, checking and wiping plates, passing them onto waiters, her head begins to clear. She doesn’t miss Mickey's relief to see her back in the line or the way the kitchen seems to fall back in its rhythm now that she's not back there getting in everyone's way, and soon the kitchen itself has fallen mostly quiet, just murmurs of "behind" and "yes chef" and "service," her headache recedes, and she begins to relax.

Servers flow to and from the service counter, cracking jokes and gossiping about tables in a murmur so as not to be overheard by customers sitting only a dozen feet away. Her kitchen is open to the restaurant, a small counter on one side for anyone who wants to watch them cook, though it has been mostly empty that night as it can only hold a small handful of people and the parties this evening have been larger, families and groups of friend. Now, though, the servers begin to murmur more urgently, the way they've done when actors and actresses come in. The Powell Estate hasn't been open too long, but it's risen up the ranks of London's dining scene quickly, a fact Rose is more than a little proud of.

She looks up to see who it is (last time it was David and Victoria Beckham and, while they had been an absolute delight, their visit had turned her servers into a nightmare to the point where an emergency meeting was needed to remind them they were working, ta) and for a moment she is absolutely sure she is seeing things. That head of spiky brown hair has been hovering on the edge of her thoughts all day and now it is here, walking across the dining room floor to the little kitchen table, bent in conversation with a tall-ish redhead who she's seen at his side in publicity photos for Prydon. Three more orders come chugging out of the printer but she doesn't even notice.

As if she's conjured him out of sheer wanting, The Doctor has just walked into her restaurant.

They slide comfortably onto the stools, thanking the host with a smile as she hands them menus and a wine list, and immediately turning to examine them. For a moment she wishes she wasn't drowning in her chef's jacket, wishes her hair was loose and wavy and her face was painted, but there's nothing she can do about that now and anyway she's in  _her_  restaurant, so she takes a deep breath and quickly calls the latest orders before striding over to them.

"…always make me choose a wine before I choose a meal!" the redhead is saying, sounding frustrated but affectionately so. Beside her, the Doctor looks mildly outraged.

"All these years, Donna, and you still don't trust me?"

"It's not about  _trust_ , it's about giving me a damn minute, eh?"

"I'm just saying that we were  _just_  trying this at the restaurant and you complained we didn't leave any for you and now look, it's right here!" He jabs his finger at the wine list.

Rose doesn't have a plan, not exactly, for what she's going to say, how to ask if he came here for her and how he knew to find her here anyway, since he didn't give any indication of knowing she owned a restaurant last night, or even how she's going to say hello. But here he is, head bent much like last night, slim and practically humming with energy, and as her stomach flips and flops and her heart begins to race (just a little bit, she swears), the words just sort of fall out of her mouth.

"Well, hello friend."

 

***

 

That voice, it's  _her_  voice. He's staring at the wine list still but it may as well be written in Greek (though, he can read Greek, just not very quickly) for all he knows. He almost doesn't want to look up, sure he's hearing things, but when he glances at Donna her lips are pursed as she tries to hold back laughter and he realizes this is real. His head snaps up so fast he almost gives himself whiplash and then Rose's lips are pursed as well. For a split second he wonders if putting two women who so expertly laugh at him — even though he's only known one of them for a few hours — in the same vicinity was a good idea, but then he remembers that eating here wasn't  _his_  idea, it was Donna's. Because Donna  _knew_.

Silence is stretching almost into awkwardness and he manages to get her name out before it can fully make it there.

"Rose!" Her lips unpurse, widen into a smile, and his heart pounds a little bit. "This is where you work?"

"Um," she says, and looks suddenly nervous, and next to him Donna snorts.

"Works, owns, what's the difference?" Donna says with a wave of her hand. "Don't mind him, he's got a rude streak."

"Owns?" he repeats. His head feels slow, thick, and he tries to shake off the shock of seeing Rose and gather himself together here. Since when does a woman throw him so decidedly off balance?

"Just opened last year," Rose confirms. Behind her some calls for service and a waiter tries to take care of it, but she sees and turns away. "I'll be right back. And he's right, for the record, that's one of my favorites."

She taps his wine list next to the Reisling he'd encouraged Donna to get and then walks away, returning her attention to the plates piling up on the pass. He can't take his eyes off her, the confidence of motions and the deftness of her fingers, expertly positioning and posing the food, wiping the plates down, hand it off for service. No, he thinks her hands are not delicate and but they are graceful and knowing and very, very sexy.

"Oh, you have it bad."

Donna's voice snaps him out of his trance and he whips around to face her, affecting an air of nonchalance a moment too late.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure, whatever you say, Spaceman. Shall I choose your dinner for you, or do you think you'll be able to pay attention to the menu?"

"No idea what you're talking about," he repeats a waiter appears. They order two glasses of wine (Donna gets the Reisling, which pleases him immensely, but he's not sure it's from his recommendation or Rose's) and are about to turn their attention to the food offerings when Rose reappears with a plate.

"Watermelon radishes and Burrata, with a light caper vinaigrette," she announces, sliding the small dish of bright pink and green slices and dollops of white soft cheese between them. "Did you want to order, or do you trust me?"

He speaks before thinking, the words just sliding out.  "Oh, I trust you."

"Fantastic," she grins. The waiter returns with wine and Rose gives her a little wink, signaling her job is only to keep their wine and water glasses full. "Enjoy."

She melts away again, back to the printer and the pass, and he can't stop looking at her even as he scoops a slice of radish and cheese onto his fork and maneuvers it into his mouth. The radish is spicy and crunch, the Burrata salty and creamy, and the capers add a bright acidity that almost makes his eyes cross. He hums his appreciation and, beside him, Donna does the same. After a moment of chewing and nodding, however, she can't hold her tongue any further.

"Do I even need to be here?" she asks and laughs when he turns back to her, obviously confused. "You're not even looking at me and I can't see that changing any time soon."

"No! No, no, I'm just, I'm… watching."

"Yeah you are."

"I'm watching them  _cook._ "

"Right," Donna snickers. "Methinks thou doth protest too much."

"I do not!" he exclaims, and catches himself. "You know, you don't have to be  _quite_  so smug."

"If you think this is smug I'll make sure you have a good view of Jack's face when I tell him."

"Oh, do you have to?"

"What and let you off the hook? Of course I have to!"

"And you call yourself my friend."

"I am your friend," she replies, suddenly serious. "I took you to her, didn't I?"

He softens at her sincerity and raises his wine glass to her. "That you did. Thank you, Donna."

"Cheers, Doctor," she says, clinking her glass gently against his and taking another sip. "Mmm, this really is fantastic. I ordered this, right? I think I did."

"You said you did, I'm rather relying on you having ordered it," he laughs as another plate comes to joint the quickly disappearing radishes beside them, this time something small and fried by the looks of it. Okra, he thinks, in a batter that reminds him of tempura. It's salty and crunchy on the outside, soft and vegetal on the inside, and paired with a crushed chili aoli that is simply addictive. The small portion of delicate pieces is gone within moments.

What comes next is a nearly two-hour parade of small dishes, on the menu and off. There is a perfectly delicate filet of turbot and half a roast wood pigeon that is crisp and bright and citrusy. A pile of risotto is dyed magenta by earthy beetroot and sliced through with white streaks of goat cheese; a homemade pasty comes out stuffed with mushrooms and kale, reclining in a pool of rich vegetable-based gravy. A roll of newspaper appears, filled with crispy potato halves that taste of sea salt and vinegar cooked right into the starches. Those disappear so quickly the kitchen sends out another. At first, wineglasses are refilled at their behest but soon different varietals are coming out in half-pours to go with their half-portions, an impromptu tasting menu at a restaurant that, as far as he can tell, has no tasting menu in its sights.

Every bite sends him soaring and simultaneously catapulting back in time. He is reminded of the scant years at home, before home was lost to him forever, and Sunday suppers with his mother and father, and of the Academy in its happy days, before the mess with Koschei, when everything was spontaneous picnics by the river and late night drunk experiments (more than one of which have found their way onto Prydon at some point or another). It is extraordinary and he wonders how he has never been here before.

Donna is nearly prone in her chair by the time the parade finally ends with a small dish of custard, speckled by vanilla bean and drizzled with what smells like an Italian plum syrup. He digs in happily but Donna waves her hand limply at the dessert.

"I can't," she moans, rubbing her stomach lightly, "How are you still eating?!"

"What do you mean?" he asks, genuinely curious. He's full, but everything that has come out is so delicious he can't imagine leaving anything behind.

"One day I'm going to find the secret to your hollow leg and I'm going to steal it. Ugh," she groans, pauses, then burps softly. "Oops. Pardon me."

"I'll take it as a compliment," Rose laughs, having just returned to their side of the counter. "Did you like it?"

She's not looking at Donna as she says it, though, and there's something in her eyes that is not quite anxious but not quite sure. He smiles, wide and genuine, and pushes the remnants of the custard out of the way so he can lean forward on his forearms. She shifts, adopting the same position as she leans over the counter and brings their faces really rather close together.

"It was brilliant," he says softly, flexing his fingers until they brush against her wrist. "Absolutely brilliant."

"Why thank you," she purrs. A shiver skates down his spine.

"And you opened last year?" She nods in answer. "Impressive."

"I think so."

"I hate to interrupt," Donna interjects gently, "but do you think we might be able to get our check? Not that I haven't enjoyed myself immensely, but I desperately need my bed and maybe a trolley to roll me out of here with."

It dissipates the spell but doesn't break it, leaving his head in the clouds as she slips away. A moment later she returns with a padded sleeve that is empty save for a string of digits that are decidedly  _not_  a dollar amount. Donna grins at him when he shows her, hands him the slip of receipt paper, and slips several hundred pound notes into its place.

"I've gotta use the loo," she says, easing herself off the high chair with a soft groan and another pat to her stomach, just as Rose is returning. She sends a worried glance at Donna's retreating back.

"She's all right, yeah?"

"She's fine," he chuckles with a wave of his hand. "Are you finished soon?"

They're leaning in towards each other again, faces close and he can smell her, smell herbs from garnish lingering in the air around her and he wants to press his nose into her hair to see what scents from her menu have gathered there, find out of he might even smell her shampoo. He leans a little closer, but the kitchen behind her is overpowering.

"A few hours," she affirms and drops her gaze to the check holder. He lifts one hand, taps his breast pocket and makes the paper there crinkle softly. She grins. "You're not in the kitchen tonight."

"Nah, Donna made me take the night off."

"Made you?"

"Said she was taking me out to dinner."

"I'll have to thank her for that," Rose murmurs, looks away and flushes the lightest pink as she says it, and confidence surges in him. He leans in a little closer.

"Can I take  _you_ out to dinner, when you're done?"

She looks stunned, and he's insulted until she speaks. "You can still eat?"

A bark of laughter escapes him and he shakes his head. "No, but I want to see you."

She blushes a little darker at that, leans in further and lets her fingers brush against his.

"Honestly, I'm knackered. Someone kept me out late last night."

"How funny, someone kept me out late as well, but I'm not feeling so tired all of a sudden."

"Don't you sleep?"

He waves a hand. "Sleep is a waste of time."

"I dunno," she tips her head to one side, "I rather like spending my down-time in bed."

And just like that he is rocketed back to this morning, a half-drunken dream of her lips sliding down her neck and her soft skin under his hands. He stirs in his trousers and shifts in his seat.

"Touché." He raises an eyebrow. "What about tomorrow?"

"What about it?" Her tongue pokes out from between her teeth as she grins, just like it did last night, and the stirring in his pants is a touch more urgent. He grabs her hand, laces their fingers together.

"Can I take you out?" he asks again.

There is something needy in his voice he normally wouldn't like, but with her he finds he doesn't care. He just wants her to say yes. 

"Out where?" She's teasing.  He likes it. A lot. 

"Wherever you want." He rubs his thumb over hers, "All of time and space."

"You think you're so impressive."

"I  _am_  so impressive."

With the hand he's not holding, she extends a finger and draws it lightly down his nose, then bops it lightly on the tip.

"Yeah, all right." Her smile seems to widen even more and he wants to kiss her. "You can buy me chips."

"Chips it is," he affirms.

There's a shout from the kitchen behind her, cooks willing to indulge their chef this flirtation running out of patience, or maybe just time, and she pulls away. They don't say goodbye, but he watches her return to the line before he leaves. It's not until he stands up that the wine and food really hit him, snowballing with the dizzy feeling Rose gives him into a feeling not quite drunk but not quite sober either.

He feels good. Awake. Alive. Even Donna's teasing can't dampen his buzz. And though he's not quite tired, when he gets home he brings his books, his notebook and his laptop into the bedroom, changes into pajamas and climbs into bed.

Sleep is a waste of time, but it will also bring tomorrow quicker.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It takes all of his willpower not to text her first thing in the morning, but he knows all too well how delicious the lie in on your day off feels, and damned if he’s going to ruin it for her. 

Plus he’s got some thinking to do. What kind of date is chips, after all? It’s not a formal affair, at least he doesn’t think so; he could name half a dozen restaurants off the top of his head that would give them a fried potato experience that could very well eclipse all chips had before or since, but he doesn’t think that’s what Rose meant when she said he could take her out for chips. He doesn’t think that’s the kind of  _girl_  she is. Her refined palate and creative approach to cooking had been more than evident last night as she’d sent that exquisite parade of plates to him, but when she’d leaned in close and, tongue between her teeth, that hadn’t been a ploy to get a five star meal. Which means she’s either got a favorite chip shop in mind, or she wants him to take her to his favorite chip shop.

Standing at his counter, tea in one hand and toast halfway to his mouth in the other, the Doctor freezes. What  _is_  his favorite chip shop? What chip shops has he been to? He’s been to countless, surely, but suddenly he can’t name a single one. Every single chip he’s eaten in his life disappears as if it simply never happened, has been written over in time, has fallen out of his brain. He can’t even name the place down the street.

He’s going to make a bloody fool of himself.

 

If he could, he’d probably pace his flat all day long, thinking and overthinking his text to Rose, what chip shop to go to, whether they should go for drinks before or after, whether they should go on adventure to a hidden corner of London or beyond or stick close to the flat just in case,  _well_ … but he can’t, because he’s got to go in and check the walk-in, chat with the kitchen, sign off on the orders, and talk with Jamie about menu testing the following week. There is enough work for him to get lost in it for a while, but everywhere he turns he swears he’s catching glimpses of blonde hair and full lips out the corner of his eye.

If his work is more rushed than normal, his demeanor more distracted and manic, no one says anything (though he swears Donna is laughing at him every time his back is turned). He slips out just after addressing the arriving servers, into a back alley lined with dumpsters and littered with cigarette butts, and before he can think about what he’s doing his phone is at his ear and ringing.

"Hello?"

Rose’s voice sounds rough with sleep even though it’s well into the afternoon, husky and sultry and he wants to know what it sounds like in his ear without the tinny interference of satellites and mobile speakers. He gets a touch caught up in that imagining, stays silent a moment too long, and when her voice comes again it is clearer and slightly suspicious.

"Hello??"

"Rose," he blurts out, then stops suddenly. His mouth works but no words come out and inside he is panicking, wondering just when he forgot how to be a person and turned back into a stuttering, wrong-footed teenager.

"Doctor?"

"Yes, I—Yes, hello. Did I wake you?"

"No," she says with a giggle but behind it he can hear a rustle of sheets and a slowly exhaled breath. "I’m just having bit of a lie in, that’s all."

She’s stretching, he realizes. His imagination promptly seizes on that and runs wild with it. He closes his eyes, imagines her in a nest of white sheets and down comforters, wearing a white vest that’s just a little bit see-through, and for reasons he’d prefer not to examine too closely,  _that’s_ what brings him back to himself. When he speaks again, his voice is deep and cheeky.

"At half four?"

"I told you," she replies and she’s flirting now too, "I like to spend my free time in bed."

"Seems a bit lonely to me," he shoots back.

"Well, I’ve got Mulder and Scully with me right now thanks to Netflix." She snickers softly. "Why, you angling to keep me company?"

Best not to touch  _that_  one just yet.

"Can I assume you’ve not been out of bed all day then?" he asks instead. "Not even for a nibble?"

"Well, I made tea, but putting on clothes sounded like a drag so I took that back to bed with me, too. Do you have something in mind?"

"Chips?"

"Mmmmm." The moan that comes out of her mouth at his suggestion makes his eyes flutter shut and his free hand fist at his side. "That’d be  _perfect_.”

"I’m just finishing up some things at the restaurant, I could come ‘round and pick you up in an hour?"

"It’s a date."

He can hear her smile over the phone, wonders if her tongue is between her teeth again.

They ring off quickly, Rose insisting she needs to shower and he wanting to get the last of these daily chores over with so he can go back to figuring out if he’ll ever be able to remember a chip shop he’s been to in his life, and as he’s walking back inside he feels his phone buzz in his pocket; her address, as promised, and not too far from his own flat it turns out.

When he reenters the kitchen, his staff is all standing there waiting for him. Before he can say anything, they begin to applaud.

"I will fire every one of you on the spot," he says mildly and they laugh, the waiters returning to picking herbs and slicing citrus and the chefs to their own preparations, but it takes a moment for the clapping to fully die down. Behind all of them, leaning against the pastry pass, he sees Donna with her hand over her mouth, trying and failing spectacularly to hide her laughter.

"So you’ll be off, then?" she asks when he reaches her side and he frowns, confused.

"Don’t you need me for the books?"

“ _No_ ,” she exclaims, eyes wide with horror, “God no, I want you to stay as far away from my books as possible. How many times do I have to tell you  _not_  to touch the books?!”

"And how many times have I told you I’m a genius—"

“ _Not_  with my books, you’re not! You just muck ‘em all up! No, no, you need to go home and change, get ready for your date.”

"Change?"

"You’re not going to wear that are you?" She gestures at his chest and he looks down at the blue pinstriped suit he’d slipped into with nary a thought that morning. He’s wearing it over a maroon t-shirt that’s quite tight if he does say so himself. He thinks he looks rather swish, really. Well, except for some of the stray food bits on the t-shirt thanks to a bit of mucking about with Jamie. Maybe he’ll change his shirt. But the suit? He looks good in the suit. It can’t be the  _suit_.

"What, the blue? I like blue."

She rolls her eyes at him. “You are bonkers.”

"What’s wrong with blue?"

 *** 

Donna tries to convince him to leave the suit behind all together, going so far as to phone him twice on his way home and once when he’s there and shaving, careful not to nick himself as he tidies his sideburns, but the best she can do is convince him to wear a clean one and leave the jacket behind. It is summer, after all. So he changes into his brown suit trousers, the ones with the super skinny pinstripes and slim cut that hug his bottom in a way he  _has_  noticed, ta, why do you think he bought them, and settles for a white button down shirt with no tie and no jacket. As he stares at himself in the mirror, pushing his hair this way and that for the  _perfect_  tousle (he’s practically an expert in that), he lets his eyes rove over the slim line of his body and decides, last minute, to roll up his sleeves to mid-forearm. He leans in, running his tongue over his teeth (breath minty fresh, check) and his hand over his cheeks (smooth and cut-free, check) one last time before turning confidently on his heel and striding out the door.

He has to run up the stairs again a moment later to retrieve his wallet.

Her flat is just a handful of Tube stops away. He texts her once he’s emerged from the underground and when he reaches the address she’s already outside, stretched out on the wide stone ledge that framed her front stoop in a patch of sun. Her hands are behind her head and her eyes are closed, her skin tawny in the sunlight and hair glinting gold around a pair of sunglasses that re pushed up to the top of her head. She is wearing a light white sundress that ends well above her knees and he is suddenly very glad he didn’t follow Donna’s sartorial instructions.

He doesn’t want to startle her and is debating the best way to get her attention when her eyes blink open and one hand shifts to provide shade as she squints at him. He can feel the smile that stretches across her face mirrored on his own.

"Doctor!" She sits up quickly, nearly knocking her sunglasses to the ground. He offers her a hand as she hops off the ledge and she doesn’t let go of it when she’s standing, just uses it to pull him into a hug. She’s warm from the sun and smells of shampoo and perfume and, beneath that, skin, and he takes what he hopes is a deep but discreet sniff as he clutches her to him. When they part it’s not all the way, her hands still resting on his biceps and his on her waist. 

"Hello," she says smiling wider.

"Hello," he echoes and for a moment they just grin at each other like two idiots, but then a man in a proper business suit on a cell phone brushes by, knocking into the Doctor and jostling them both out of their little trance. They let go of each other and Rose slips her sunglasses from her hair onto her nose.

"It’s beautiful today," she says, taking his hand and tugging him down the block in one direction. "Can we walk?"  
  
"Of course. Did you have somewhere in mind?"

"Well," she pauses, frowning slightly like she forgot something, "sort of, but I didn’t even think—do  _you_  have somewhere in mind?”

"No, not really," he admits, trying to make it sound casual like he intended to give her control and not let on about his uncharacteristic memory loss. "Lead on, Rose Tyler."

She laughs and shifts a little closer to him, walking with purpose now. They chit chat about their days as they wind through the rabbit warren of central London roads and side alleys until Rose abruptly stops walking in front of an old and worn pub. Peering in through the front window, the Doctor sees a handful of wooden booths and a small bar manned by a red-nosed man, and can’t help the way his grin widens. When he turns to Rose, though, she’s pulled her sunglasses back on top of her head and is worrying her lip nervously.

"I know it doesn’t look like much, but they have my favorite fish ‘n’ chips in all London," she rushes to explain. "Their fish is so crispy and light, and their chips are just  _divine_. And I haven’t actually eaten today, so I was thinking maybe something more than  _just_  chips.”

As if cued, her stomach growls rather loudly and he laughs.

"It’s brilliant," he assures her and pulls open the door, gesturing her inside ahead of him. They settle into a booth just barely big enough for the two of them, their feet tangling under the table, trainers and sandals and skin he wishes he could feel. There’s a dog sleeping in one corner and two middle aged men, obviously regulars, watching a football match on the pub’s lone television, making the appropriate grunts or shouts when something does or doesn’t go their way. A waitress, probably not even out of her teens, greets Rose with a smile by name and drops a couple menus on their table.  Instead of looking at them, they order two pints of lager and two servings of fish ‘n’ chips.

The lager comes in moments, cold and refreshing after the long walk in the sun, and he takes a rather long draught from his immediately. When he sets it down he swears he catches Rose staring (at his throat?) before she’s dropping her gaze and hiding her face behind her own pint.

For a moment they flounder, neither seeming to know where to start even though conversation has come so easy so far, and he’s suddenly reminded that he’s known this woman for  _two days_.

"So—" they start at the same time, laugh, and reach for their pints again. Determined to break this awkward mimicry, the Doctor waits for her to begin to drink before he speaks.

"So is this your weekend then?"

She shakes her head as she sets her drink down. “I should be so lucky. Back on the pass tomorrow, you know how it goes.”

"Prydon’s only open Wednesday through Sunday," he admits, irrationally sheepish. It feels like it’s been centuries since he opened, but he remembers those days: weeks of work in a row without a day off, crazy hours and crazier employees, the way it felt like he was clawing for his spot in the dining scene and the sense of triumph – as if he was a general winning a war – when the good reviews started coming in and the customers with them.

"Ah, the Michelin-starred chef’s privilege," Rose chuckles. "I miss those days."

"Oh, do you have a star tucked away somewhere?" He is genuinely surprised. Her laugh is like music. 

"No, not me!" she shakes her head, sips her beer again, "But I had to learn how to cook, didn’t I?"

"And who taught you how to cook?" he asks, leaning in close. She mimics him as she begins to talk.

Her resume is, in a word, impressive. She has cooked with the best, Ruth Rogers and Fergus Henderson, a summer learning cheesemaking at a midlands dairy and another in Cornwall learning sausage and butchery. He knows his mouth is agape as she speaks, and he hopes she doesn’t find it condescending, but he is genuinely gobsmacked. The meal she served him the night before rushes through his head as she talks and it’s like a veil has been lifted from his eyes. She cooked like a master; you don’t just wake up knowing how to do that.

He drains his pint, orders another round for them both, and just tries to keep her talking. Each story she tells prompts another, or a question; he learns she’s cooked over much of England (even at a seaside hotel!) but has only left the country for a week in Italy where a grandmother taught her how to make pasta.

His heart pitter-patters in his chest as she tells her stories and he wonders if it is too early to say he is falling in love.

She left St. John to open The Powell Estate at Fergus’s urging, she tells him, and that’s when the plates of fish ‘n’ chips arrive. Rose immediately stops speaking and lights up at the food, her eyes wide with delight. He unrolls his napkin from around a fork and knife but Rose doesn’t bother, just reaches for the vinegar and promptly begins drenching her entire plate. He shakes his head at her but forgets what he’s on about when she pops one of those chips into her mouth, throws her head back, and groans.

"Oh, that’s  _gorgeous_.”

He can’t disagree with that, but they wouldn’t be talking about the same thing. 

"So hold on," he says as she belatedly reaches for her napkin and then abandons it in favor of breaking off the end of her fish filet with her fingers. "How old are you?"

Because that’s the one thing he can’t figure out, with this long and fascinating history of hers. Because she looks so  _young_.

She freezes with the fish halfway to her lips and a guilty smile that gives him a small, lecherous heart attack.

"Twenty-six," she murmurs. A shiver of relief courses through him then another wave of disbelief.

"But you can’t have been cooking for less than ten years."

"Just about exactly ten," she affirms. "Started when I was 16."

"But you should have been in school. You’re not telling me you dropped out?"

"And if I did?"

Her tone is suddenly sharp, barbed; he’s insulted her and he doesn’t know how or why. Raising his hands in supplication he backpedals as quickly as he can.

"I’m not judging, I’m just surprised." 

"Why? Because cooks need A-levels?"

"No, Rose, that’s not what I’m trying to say at all, I—" he cuts himself off, regrouping mentally for a second, "I wasn’t making a judgment, I swear, I just didn’t expect it."

She sighs, deflates a little.

"I left school for a boy," she admits softly. "Not my proudest moment. Extremely unsuccessful, too. Mum was furious, I was embarrassed, and it was between working at a shop or at the pub to earn my keep. The pub gave me free pints after my shift."

"Priorities I can understand," he laughs, feeling some of the sudden tension ease.

"I cooked at home all the time – Mum worked hard to make ends meet and I had to help somehow – and so I’d help in the kitchen when they needed it and realized I actually  _liked_  the cooking. So I convinced them to let me do that full time and from there, well…”

"That’s brilliant."

"I dunno," she stared at her chips as she toyed with one, "Mum said it was the worst mistake of my life. Leaving school."

"Oh a terrible mistake," he agreed affably, knocking his foot against hers under the table, "After all, it’s not like you own a critically acclaimed and popular restaurant and what I can only assume is a rather posh flat because of it or anything."

"Well, I rent the flat," she shrugs, but her serious expression melts away into a cheeky smile. "So I suppose I’ve about broken even."

He laughs again and is about to say something else when she cuts him off.

"You, though,  _you_  need to try these fish ‘n’ chips. They’ll go cold if you wait too long and then it’ll be all your fault that you’ve missed the best in the city.”

"I’ll just steal some of yours."

"Mine will be gone," she promises, pulling her plate a little closer all the same with a frown. "Eat, Doctor." 

*** 

He loses track of time entirely in the pub, between the pints and the food and the woman in front of him. She is captivating. He wants to climb inside her head, see things the way she sees them, taste the things she tastes. The plates are cleared away but the pints keep coming and in the middle of the tiny table their hands find each other, touch and stroke and tangle. He feels dizzy but he’s not sure if it’s the lager, or Rose.

He finds out her nose turns adorably red when she’s a bit drunk.

They ask for a check and get a number low enough to be absurd so he leaves a pile of notes on the table easily double what they’ve been charged and pulls her back out into the night. There are still streaks of pink at the lowest point on the horizon – an inversion of their first night, or morning, he realizes – the sun having just set, and above them a few stars struggle to make themselves seen through the light pollution. The air is fresh and slightly damp and smells of early summer nights and the sharp tang of impending rain. Neither of them pay it any mind.

They walk aimlessly until he recognizes the street they’re on, not too far from his flat and some of his favorite haunts, and then he’s pulling her off in one direction, both of them giggling like mad as she stumbles a little, towards a tiny cocktail bar he’s taken to. 

They’ve been holding hands practically all night but she’s a little unsteady on her feet so he slips his arm around her shoulder instead, pulling her tight to his side. She fits rather brilliantly.

"What about you?" she asks, arm around his waist, as they fall into step together. "I’ve been talking about myself all night but you’ve barely told me anything about yourself."

"Well what do you want to know?"

"Where did you grow up?"

"Oh everywhere." He hates talking about this.

"Come on." She leans her head on his shoulder and he finds he can’t refuse her.

"Well I was  _born_  in a little town called Gallifrey.”

"Gallifrey? Where’s that, in Ireland?"

"Northern. But we moved around a lot and then…" he trails off, unable to finish the sentence. Some things he can’t lead with. "Then I went to boarding school."

"Boarding school? Really?"

"Oh yes," he grins, thinking back. "They hated me. I was smarter than them and couldn’t have cared less. Skipped class, skipped town, skipped the country a few times. Always came back, had nowhere else to go, and no matter how hard they tried I didn’t fail my classes either. Basically, I was a headmaster’s nightmare."

"Did you sit for A-levels?"

"That I did. And then I got the hell out of there."

"So when did you start cooking?"

"Welllll," he draws the word out, feels her hand tense on his hip in a way he thinks is good when he does, "At school they would  _try_  to punish me. Worst punishment was boredom of course, and there was plenty of that to go around, but their favorite was to put me down in the mess, cleaning dishes and prepping for meals. What they didn’t realize was that I liked it. So I just stuck with it. After school I just started traveling in earnest, cooking in any kitchen that would have me. And now here I am. “

"But why did you stay at all?" Their walking had slowed to a stroll as he was talking and now she leans her chin on his shoulder, looking up at him. Her face is so close to his but still out of reach and they almost stop walking entirely as he looks down at her.

"There were reasons to stay," he says carefully, trying to satisfy her curiosity without actually giving anything away, "and nothing to go back to."

He can see the question form behind her eyes and travel to her tongue and before she can voice it he changes his grip, grabs her hand and quickens their pace again.

"Anyway! I traveled the world until I couldn’t anymore, learned until I couldn’t bear to cook in someone else’s kitchen, then I came back to London and set up shop."

He is very glad she lets it drop.

She lets him steer the conversation away from his past and towards his present, and he’s regaling her with the time he and Jamie were in Japan doing research for one of their first menus together and found themselves chased out of a very small, rural town after he unwittingly – and unintentionally – agreed to marry a man’s daughter in exchange for learning a particular noodle technique when a crack of thunder splits the sky and it begins to pour.

Rose shrieks and he shouts and the rain is  _freezing_ , and suddenly they are running, sprinting through the streets. Their hands stay tightly clasped together as they duck and weave, just barely dodging other pedestrians and opening umbrellas. They’re searching for solace but all around them are closed and closing shops, so when he spies a sign that says “bar” he yanks her to the right and in the door.

They’re laughing and stamping their feet to shake the rain off them, dripping all over the place, and it takes a moment to register the silence.

The Doctor turns his attention from Rose and finds a small bar lined with goth young men and women dressed in black lace and ruffle shirts with pale makeup and dark lipstick staring, stunned.

An awkward silence lingers until the bartender clears his throat. He gestures to a sign that indeed says,  _Appropriate Dress Required_.

"I’m sorry, but there’s a dress code."

"But it’s raining," Rose says, sounding bewildered.

"I’m sorry," the bartender repeats. "We have a dress code."

"But it’s  _pouring_ ,” she tries. The bartender just shakes his head, and gestures to the door.

Back on the street in the rain, the Doctor and Rose stare at each other.

"I can’t believe he just kicked us out," she says after a moment. He tries not to stare at her increasingly see-through dress and casts his eyes about the street rather desperately instead, looking for any kind of shelter or non-goth-dress-code bar.

"Over there," he says, pointing towards a small mews and they run for it, splashing through fast growing puddles. It’s a residential mews, but there’s a back door cut out with a small balcony above it and they huddle beneath it. She is shivering so he runs his hands over her arms, feeling the chill on her skin as he brushes away water. In their tiny shelter some of the summer heat returns, making the air around them warm and humid and thick. He keeps rubbing her arms as she hooks her fingertips just barely into the waistband of his trousers. She looks up at him through her eyelashes.

"I can’t believe he kicked us out," she says again. "It’s not like we’re in trainers and jeans!"

"I’m in trainers," he admits, touching the rubber toe of his shoe to her bare, sandaled toe. She leans her upper body back against the stonework but keeps her hips angled sharply towards his as she takes a long, slow look up and down his body.

"Trainers and a suit. Well, half a suit," she focuses on his chest, "And you’ve gone a bit see through."

"You’ve gone a bit see through yourself," he shoots back and lets his eyes drop to her chest as well. Her white sundress has gone more than a bit see through, really, and he’s got a lovely view of her bra. It is white, strapless and – he squints, wishing he had his glasses – lacy around the edges. It may be lacy over the cups, too, he can’t tell. It’s hard to make out the details through her dress but surely he’d be able to  _feel_ …

"You’re staring at my chest." She points out, sounding a little flirtatious and a little wry.

"It’s a lovely chest," he murmurs without thinking. His eyes fly up to hers when he realizes what he said. To his infinite relief, she’s giggling and not slapping him.

"Yours isn’t too bad either," she counters, running her hands up his stomach and chest and then over his shoulders, pulling him closer. He comes without protest, hips bumping together and hands leaving her arms for her waist, gripping tight. "No vest?"

"It was warm earlier."

"It’s warm now."

"You were shivering," he smoothes his hands a little further down, just to the top of her bum but no further. "Not cold anymore?"

"No," she whispers and her eyes are magnetic, drawing him nearer and nearer, "I’m not cold."

He could fall into her eye, he thinks, warm honey brown and rimmed with gold, but before that thought can run too wild her eyes slip shut and she tips her chin up and their lips meet. It stuns him for a second, the simple fact that he is kissing her, and then it hits home: he is  _kissing_  her. The longer, sweeter version of that intoxicated, intoxicating kiss she’d pressed to his mouth as dawn broke two days ago, a kiss just shy of the ones that floated through his dreams these past night. And he wants  _that_  kiss, the hotter, deeper, wetter one, so he tilts his head and touches his tongue to her lips.

She opens readily, eagerly, with a soft sound issuing from the back of her throat and he is lost, lost, lost. If her smile is captivating and her eyes are magnetic, her mouth is addictive. He can taste vinegar and lager around the edges, a hint of her lipstick’s waxy sweetness, and a broader, more unctuous flavor that is simply Rose. One of his hands slips fully down to her bum, gripping tight and hauling her closer as his other arm winds tight around her waist, holding her firm. Her hands slip from his shoulders up into his damp hair and tug, and that is just  _brilliant_. He tries to murmur his approval while angling his thigh between her legs and he can hear the his own heart beating wildly and the way she breathes heavily through her nose and the rain pounding around them or maybe that’s just the blood rushing in his ears, and the sound of a throat being cleared— 

Wait.

There’s that throat clearing sound again and he pulls back, breaking the kiss abruptly but not letting her go, not fully. He twists, looking over his shoulder and yes, there is a man there, an older gentleman in a suit with a wet umbrella by his side looking more amused than angry. That’s good. Amused is better than angry.

"So sorry to interrupt," the man says slowly, voice dry as a desert, "but you seem to be blocking my door."

He is reluctant to break away from her, but Rose’s hands fall out of his hair and to his hips and gently pushes him back. He takes a step away, hoping it’s not obvious to her  _or_  the man exactly how aroused he is, and takes her hand.

"Rose?" he says softly, and she looks up at him expectantly, "Run!"

They peel off down the street but his trainers are squelching and her wet dress is tangling around her thighs so he flags down the first cab he sees and gives the driver his address before he can even think to ask. Rose doesn’t protest, just cuddles up to his side in the face of the aggressive air conditioning, nuzzling his jaw and neck in a way that makes it very hard to keep his hands to himself. He tells her that and she laughs softly. 

"Who says I want you to keep them to yourself?"

"The driver, probably," he points out, eyes fluttering shut as she scrapes her teeth against his collarbone, "Stop that."

"Stop? Really?"

"We’re almost there."

"How almost is almost?"

“ _Almost_.”

She doesn’t keep her mouth to herself for the rest of the ride but he manages not to lay her down against the leather seat and take her on the spot so he considers it a win. The cab driver, if he is annoyed, doesn’t say anything when he presses some notes into his hand and tells him to keep the change. His hands are shaking as he fits the key in the lock and as he pushes the door in he remembers his flat wasn’t exactly prepared for company. He didn’t want to be presumptuous.

"It’s a bit of a mess," he apologizes as he leads her up the stairs by the hand."I wasn’t expecting…"

"Can I dry my dress?" she asks, plucking at the wet cotton clinging to her thighs. "You’ve got a washer and dryer, yeah?"

"Of course," he says, pushing open the second door that leads to his actual living space. "I’ve got some dry clothes you can wear in the meantime, too."

"Oh wonderful, thank you," she says and then draws up short behind him as he steps into his home. "Oh, wow."

He fell in love with this flat because of the space, the way only the bedroom and loo are walled off in any way and the rest of the space just flows into itself. What had been two floors were turned into one with massively high ceilings and a loft for guests. The sitting room, dining room and kitchen are really all one big room, with a counter and stools marking the kitchen off from the other two. The wall opposite them is lined with large windows framing London at night.

"I’ll get you something," he says, leaving her to look her fill. His blood is still buzzing with arousal but he feels a little more in control of himself; the rain and the running have sobered him up, which he welcomes. He toes off his trainers as he fishes around for something to give Rose to wear. He finds an old Academy t-shirt, soft and worn, and a pair of gray cotton running shorts he forgot he even owned. Quickly, he strips out of his own wet clothes, pulling on a dry pair of trousers and a Prydon t-shirt they’d had printed up for their five-year anniversary, and hurries back out to her.

She is standing in the center of his sitting room looking a little lost and a little shy. Her mouth is swollen and red from their earlier kisses and her hair is wavy as it dries, and he rather wants to kiss her again as soon as possible. He holds out the dry clothes instead.

"Here," he says, "Change into these, I’ll put your dress in the dryer."

She grins, thanks him, and pulls her dress over her head in one smooth motion. Without warning, Rose Tyler is standing in the middle of his sitting room in nothing but her knickers and bra.

It  _is_  lacy all over, he finds. Her knickers match.

"Um," he says as she saunters over. She is slim and toned but rounded softly along her breasts and hips and belly, all the right curves in all the right places as they say. His hand, which had been holding his clothing out to her, has dropped to his side, and she uses the opportunity to move very, very close to him as she takes the fresh clothes from him.

"Thank you," she says again, and presses her wet dress into his hand. He grips it purely out of reflex, cannot tear his eyes from her as she slips the t-shirt over her head. Only when she is slightly covered can he snap himself out of it.

"Um, I’ll be right, um," he says and scurries off down the hall to the dryer. When he returns for a second time, she is sitting on his sofa and looking a little lost.

"I could open a bottle of wine, if you want," he offers, walking over to her. She shrugs, and he feels the same; drinking is nice but he can think of other things to do with his mouth and hers that are nicer, but the steamy mood from the rain and then the cab has dissipated somewhat and he feels a bit like an awkward teenager, not knowing how to make the first move. Nevermind that they’re a dozen moves away from the first move now.

"Doctor," she implores and holds her hand out to him. He takes it, relieved when she uses it to tug him towards her and quite suddenly he is beside her and partially over her on the couch and they are kissing again. He doesn’t even know how it happens, it’s just mouths and hands and the feel of her body under his and it is  _fantastic_.

They’re awkward on the sofa, in the middle not near one of the arms and the angle that provides, and after some hot presses of mouths to mouths Rose makes a frustrated sound and pushes at his shoulders. He can’t figure out what she wants at first, just presses her harder into the cushions, but then she pushes harder and tries to sit up under him and he gets it. Breaking the kiss with a loud pop he rears back and sits down and she follows, throwing one leg over his lap and settling in, and just like that Rose Tyler is straddling him.

Her arms wind around his neck, his hands grip her hips, and they are kissing again, long wet kisses that are sloppy, messy, and delicious. Her short fingernails scrape against his scalp, sending bolts of pleasure straight down his spine to his groin, and slowly he becomes aware of her hips grinding against his in slow circles. His head spins with arousal and a distinct lack of oxygen so he abandons her mouth for her neck, returning the sweet torture of nips and scrapes she’d unleashed on him in the cab and she moans and holds him in place, throwing her head back to expose more of her throat to him. His hands begin to wander up under his shirt and across her back, and she makes a noise of agreement, leaning back so she can pull it quickly over her head. She moves in to kiss him again but he holds her in place, her bra delightfully eye level, and takes her in.

"Like what you see?" She is cheeky and her voice is shaking slightly.

"You’re beautiful," he says hoarsely and tucks one finger into her bra cup, pulling it down and allowing her breast to pop free. Before she can say anything he leans in and takes her nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue against the little pebble of flesh and she  _arches_  in the most delicious way. He steals a glance upward, sees her eyes closed tight and her brow furrowed, teeth closed over her bottom lip. The image is enough to harden him fully, his trousers far too tight all of a sudden. Why did he put on real trousers anyway? Why did  _either_  of them put on clothes, come to think of it?

She’d reared up slightly when he’d latched onto her breast and now she settles back down, directly on his cock. By the look on her face she can feel him quite clearly. She confirms this by swiveling her hips in the most tortuous figure eight he’s ever experienced.

He’s slept with many women, even one who claimed to be mistress to the French president, but he’s sure he’s never made  _that_  sound before.

They kiss and grope and suck and bite, hips grinding together as they neck like teenager, frankly, on his sofa. She works his shirt up and off, he unclasps her bra, and the slide of naked skin against naked skin is simply electric. He can’t seem to keep his hands off her bum – it’s quite a rump, round and substantial and firm – and each squeeze seems to drive her down harder on him. He thinks about what this would feel like without clothes, with his cock buried in her wet heat, and it makes him buck which in turn makes her gasp and him chuckle and then she’s biting his neck like it’s punishment and it’s anything but.

Time slips away from him entirely as they rock and rut, touch and taste, and he has no idea how much has passed when a very rude buzzing, grinding sound interrupts the bubble of lust they’ve created around them. It penetrates his consciousness as he’s sucking on her neck, leaving a rather livid mark right at the juncture of neck and shoulder, largely because it causes Rose to pull back. They stare at each other, panting hard.

"I think that’s the dryer," she says after a moment, and he is immensely pleased to hear her voice is shaking. In fact her entire body is trembling, he hopes with desire. He slides his hands around from her rear to her chest, cups her breasts in both hands and squeezes lightly. Another shiver racks her, this one stronger, confirming his hypothesis.

"Rude dryer," he replies. 

"I should," she starts, stops, swallows, tries again, "I should go. It’s late, probably." 

The words are like a bucket of cold water dumped on his head. He lets go of her breasts, drops his hands to the sofa like he’s been burned.

"Oh," he manages, "Okay, I can just—"

"I don’t  _want_  to go,” she rushes to say, clamping her thighs around his slim hips and  _oh_ , if she wants to leave she  _really_  shouldn’t do that, not with the way it presses her even tighter against him.  “I don’t  _want_  to but I should. I have to work tomorrow, and if I stay…”

He knows what she is not saying.

"Would that really be so bad?"

"I don’t want to rush," she admits softly, and he can’t tell if she is blushing or her cheeks are flushed from their recent activities. "I want this to last." 

The flutter in his chest from her words, it’s a whole other kind of relief that what his body is screaming for, and infinitely more welcome.

"Oh, I can last Rose Tyler," he says, low and hoarse, and watches her eyes darken in response.

"I’m sure you can, but that’s not what I mean."

"I know what you mean. I want this to last too."

"Good," she says with a firm nod and drops a long, lingering kiss on his mouth. The dryer is still screaming in the background. "And I promise, you can show me  _your_  lasting abilities soon.”

They’re reluctant to shift away from each other but they manage it by degrees until she is sitting beside him on the sofa and reaching for her bra where it landed on the floor. He pulls himself up to fetch her dress and uses the walk to the dryer to adjust himself in his trousers so he’s a little less uncomfortable and, hopefully, less obvious as well. If Rose notices the tenting she doesn’t say anything, just shimmies out of his shorts and back into her dress. He files that little wiggle away to think about later.

"Thank you," she says as he walks her back down the stairs to his front door, hand in hand. "I had a lovely time."

"All down to you, Rose," he says, pulling her close before she can open the door and nuzzling his nose against hers, "You have excellent taste in chips."

"I have excellent taste in a lot of things," she murmurs back and he hums his agreement as he captures her lips in yet another kiss. His mouth feels swollen and bruised and wonderful, and he’s tempted to try to lure her back up to his flat and his bed but he holds himself back through sheer force of will. They separate a few scant inches, breathing heavily once more. She reaches out blindly, finds the doorknob and turns it.

He wants to ask if he can call her a cab, or ask when he can see her again, but when he opens his mouth what comes out is, “I’m so glad I met you.”

She smiles and kisses him one last time, shorter and sweeter.

"Me too," she says, and slips out his door. 


	4. Chapter 4

He is consumed with her.

Her smell, her taste, the feel of her skin; he thinks of her every moment he is awake and dreams of her at night. He has taken himself in his hand, wanked like a teenager in his bed, on his sofa (on pillows where the scent of her hair and her arousal can still be detected by his kitchen-honed sense of smell), in the shower, all to his memories and imagination. He's pretty sure he didn't even wank like this when he was actually 16.

He hears her voice, the way it trembled between kisses and the jangling bells of her laugh. Sometimes he thinks he even feels her breath on his cheek. But the universe, it seems, is conspiring to keep them apart: months of reservations on the books at both their restaurants, a small (manageable, but frustrating nonetheless) grease fire at The Powell Estate causing her to cancel their next hastily-planned date at the last moment; a less-small flood when one of the industrial ice makers breaks cancelling the one after that.

They are talking in snatches: rushed text messages during shifts; exhausted good night phone calls, bed to bed. The distance in those phone calls is painful in its pointlessness. He wants to feel her hair on his arm and her lips brushing against his shoulder when she speaks, wants his breath to ruffle her hair when he answers, eyes closed and wrapped around each other in the dark. He knows where she's been, remembers those days so well, the pressure and anxiety and the rush and the adrenaline; he should be able to whisper all of that in her ear.

In the meantime he is helpless to her memory, unable to concentrate or focus or, worst of all, to create. The new menu looms, is almost done, but small gaps he'd have filled unthinkingly in the past stay open and empty because the only flavors he can think about are the salty-sweet mix of rainwater and sweat on Rose's skin, the umami of her tongue against his, the spicy-savory scent of her arousal in the air as it hits the very back of his throat. Making the summer menu "Barcelona" may have felt like a misstep before, but it feels like a mistake now; he should have declared this menu "Rose" and locked them both up for weeks so he could properly taste every inch of her.

"Oi, Spaceman," comes a voice to his right, "I asked for that burger medium-rare."

The burger in the pan is smoking, undercooked on one side and charred on the other and he throws it in the trash with a loud thud. He almost throws the pan, too, wanting the crash and clank, an auditory recognition of his anger and frustration, of the thrumming in his body that won't let his mind be. Before he can do that, Donna's hand comes down on his wrist. The rest of the kitchen stays focused on their work, ignoring them.

"You all right?" she asks softly as he rolls his shoulders to release some tension and quickly forms another burger patty from the bowl of ground beef beside him.

"Fine."

"I can't remember the last time you burned—"

"I said I'm _fine_."

"Did you and Rose have row?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Sometimes you're not so good at picking up—"

"I'm sure," he snaps, annoyance surging powerfully alongside frustration just at the mention of her name. "You have to _see_ someone to row with them. 

"What?! It's been three weeks. I was gone for _two_ of them," Donna grinds out, and the Doctor knows that if he were to look at her right now her eyes would be bulging madly at him, "and you didn't see her _once_?!"

"I've _tried_ ," he says and he isn't whining, he knows he isn't whining, he is the Doctor and he does not _whine_ about _women_. If it sounds like a whine, well, that's just a coincidence. "I think the universe is conspiring against us."

"What's the universe care about you?" she snorts, leaning one hip against the counter to watch him cook her burger properly this time. "Can't even cook a burger."

"Okay, that's enough," he cuts her off, mustering every bit of his authority to great effect before lowering his voice down to a murmur. "You remember what it's like in that first year. Trying to keep the ship afloat and sailing straight, ever plate feeling like it came directly out of your soul. She's busy, and I'm busy here, and every time we've had even a little bit of an overlap something's gone wrong. Fires, floods, it's the bloody Ten Plagues, Donna, and it's driving me bonkers. 

"But you've spoken to her."

"On the phone."

"And you like her. Are you sure she likes you?"

"Oiiii," he abandons the burger for a moment turning fully to his friend. "C'mon, what've I done to deserve _that_?"

"Well, I'm just trying to make sure she's on the same page as you. Maybe she can't make time for you because she doesn't want to."

"She wants to."

"How do you know?"

His mind vaults back to their first and only date, to the heat and weight of her on top of him, the way her skin seemed to vibrate when his dryer broke the spell around them and the way she shuddered from head to toe when he'd cupped her breasts for the last time. The way her voice took on a hoarse, wanting note when he'd spoken to her just the other night, told her he missed her. This is mutual, he is sure.

"I know," he says firmly, sliding the patty off the grill and onto the waiting bun at his side. "There, medium rare."

"Thank you _, chef_ ," Donna says with a grin and begins digging around the cooler by her shins for condiments. "So when's your next date?"

"Haven't made one."

"You're a dunce," she snorts. "Take her out tonight."

"We've got service."

"You've got staff."

" _She's_ got service."

"Go in, get dinner, sweep her off her feet. Worked last time. Or do you need me there to turn on the charm?" 

"I do not need you there for _anything,_ ta," he grumbles, dumping the used pan in the dishwashing sink and following her out of the kitchen and into the dining room 

"Well do _something_ , because I need that big old brain of yours in the here and now. While I appreciate you not looking through my mail, as requested, during my holiday we now have about two dozen invitations to respond to. Can you do that?"

He makes a face as he slides into a chair, fishing his mobile out of his pocket. There's half a dozen new text messages but none from Rose. It stings and he quickly shuts it off and tosses it onto the table. He scrubs his hands on his face and rubs his eyes under his glasses, then gives a little all-over shake like a wet dog. When he looks back up at Donna she's got a wry look on her face but his head feels clearer. He blinks twice at her, then nods.

"Are any of them fun?" 

***

Dinner drags in a way it never has before. His kitchen is beautiful and filled with some of the most talented chefs, cooks and waiters in all of London; even when he takes a step back from cooking and simply manages his people, it is a beautiful and carefully choreographed routine he usually relishes. But tonight he feels itchy and impatient, and bored. He steals time with Jamie in the corner, slicing sous vide pork and tasting stews that have been cooking all day, all for the upcoming menu, but he finds it hard to hold onto his thoughts. 

He has texted Rose three times since his conversation with Donna, but he hasn't received a single reply.

He distracts himself with diners, taking courses out to them and letting himself get lost in their reactions. A four top cheers when he spreads slashes of pureed fruit and freeze-dried chocolate across their table for dessert, and a couple celebrating their anniversary stare at him in obvious wonder as he cuts the small bunch of herbs and aromatics hanging above their tables and infuses a kettle of steaming Thai curry soup with it before their eyes. He watches as a small birthday party gleefully accepts their green apple taffy balloons and then tell jokes in helium-pitched voices (he's been through nearly every fruit making these balloons every single day since Prydon opened and is fast running out of options, but he won't give in to making pear no matter how many times Jamie declares it an obvious solution).

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile to check it for the twenty-eighth time that night (and he hasn't been counting, not really, but his stupid giant brain, it won't stop keeping track despite him). As he does, the phone buzzes in his hand and her name appears on his lock screen along with a single word.

_Drinks?_

He ducks quickly out of the dining room, dashing up the service hallway that runs past his kitchen and to a private corner. By the time he finds one, another word has appeared.

_Please?_

That he intends to say yes was never even a question, but this addendum worries him. The words on his screen are just bits of data bounced from satellite to satellite but he senses distress, upset beneath them.

 _Of course._ He types quickly. _Where? When?_

_Wilf's?_

The one-word texts are unnerving. He wishes he could see her face.

_Yeah. Absolutely. I'll be there._

There's a pause, a long pause, before he gets a reply.

_Thank you :)_

He wants to text her back, to demand reassurance but that's not fair. Instead he turns on his heel and marches back into the kitchen. It's still chugging away like the well-oiled machine it is and he casts about for a way to make himself useful without mucking it up. He doesn't see one so he joins Jamie on the pass.

When they kick him out less than two hours later, he doesn't mind.

***

The Doctor's on his third pint and second aggravating conversation with Jack when the door to Wilf's bangs open and a set of footsteps make a beeline towards him. Jack stops midsentence, eyes widening as Rose drops down onto the stool beside him, and immediately turns towards his beer taps. The Doctor whips around as she drops her bag onto the floor with a loud thunk.

"Sorry," she says, sniffling at the end of the word and not quite looking at him. Her hair is loose and hiding her face, but when she reaches up and swipes at her eyes he sees her cheeks and nose are tinted red. He reaches for her but stops himself, hand hovering near her shoulder. In this moment just how short a time he's known her looms large; he's not sure if she wants to be touched when she's upset.

His mind, always moving, is about to latch onto that and run with it for who knows how long when she shakes her head a little and turns fully to him, a wan but sincere smile on her face.

"Sorry," she says again. "Hi."

"Hello, Rose Tyler," he grins back and pulls her into a light hug without standing. It's a little awkward, the way they're both still perched on stools and leaning so far, but he can feel her relax the moment she's in his arms, and when she does the tension flows out of him a well.

"Sorry I'm late," she murmurs into his shoulder. "It was hell tonight."

"You all right?" he asks against her hair, and it's so close to his fantasy.

"Fine, I'm fine, I'm so much better now," she says, pulling back. He's reluctant to let her go and, to his delight, she catches his hand and entwines their fingers as they separate. "I just need--- yes. _Yes_. Thank you, Jack."

A pint and two shots of brown liquor have appeared on the bar during their hug and Jack winks at them both as he walks away to attend to other customers. With their free hands, they lift the shots and clink the glasses gently without a toast before throwing them back. He grimaces and chases his with his beer, but out the corner of his eye he watches Rose relish the burn.

She looks like she's had a hell of a night.

"So is everything—"

"I've missed you!" she exclaims, interrupting him before he can ask her questions and scooting her stool closer to his. For a moment he's annoyed, frustrated, but then her thumb strokes his and the heat of her skin eclipses every thought in her brain. "How's the menu coming?"

Her eyes seem clearer and she seems like she's cheered just being next to him so he lets it go for now, hopes he'll have a chance to bring it up later.

"All right. Almost done, I think. Little tweaks here and there, perhaps. We'll be running through the whole thing next weekend, care to taste test for us?"

"An exclusive sneak peek into Prydon's summer menu? Of course! How could I say no to that?"

"It's going to take all afternoon. I'll need your undivided attention."

"Oh, you've got it," she grins, adjusting her grip so she can brush her fingertips on the inside of his wrist. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I've missed you," he blurts out and she's just said it, just a moment ago, but it feels like a dangerous confession. Her smile grows a little wider, and a little more genuine, and her finger slip further up his forearm.

"Me too. God, what a time it's been."

"Fires, floods," he says with a shake of his head. "Is your restaurant still standing?"

"Yup, still there," she says, but her it's a little forced and he winces internally. Before he can cast about for a way to change the subject, Jack returns with his bottle of whiskey.

"Another round?" he asks, pouring as he does. They drink again, the whiskey settling warm and low in his belly and spreading out through his blood and into his brain. When he puts the shot glass down he turns it over and pulls himself in closer still so their knees are mingling as much as their fingers, then carefully does the same with Rose's glass. He wants her, and he wants this, and he wants them both to have clearish heads for it.

"Watching what I drink?" she teases as he does, but she doesn't turn it back over, just picks up her pint and takes a long sip.

"Well it's been ages since I've seen you," he tries to keep his voice a light as hers. "Wouldn't want you going to bed early on me."

"How about just on you?" The tip of her tongue pokes out the corner of her mouth, and the Doctor focuses very hard on not blushing. Instead he leans in and drops his voice low.

"Is that a promise?"

A pink flush the color of her namesake spreads across her cheeks and he lets his lips just barely brush over the corner of her mouth as he leans back. When he's clear of her she takes another, longer drink. The flush doesn't fade.

An awkward silence hovers nearby and before it can descend he tips his head back towards the small row of red, black and green boards at the back of the bar.

"Care to make a wager?" he asks. She turns, looks at the dartboard, and nods.

"You're on."

Two more pints and five lost games later, the Doctor thinks he really should have taken her confidence as a sign of his impending doom. He tries to reason it's the extra pints he had before she came, an advantage he _thinks_ she didn't know she had, but it's a lie; he's a master of aerodynamics and a dynamite darts player, so his lack of aim and concentration likely has more to do with the tight and low-cut camisole Rose revealed when she shed the button-down shirt she'd worn into Wilf's, and the snug jeans that showed up her bum in just the right way as she crouched and wiggled into her darts stance. He's been caught staring more than once and he could swear that bend and shimmy has grown more exaggerated each time.

His wounded pride protests and asks for another game but Rose laughs him off and drains the rest of her beer from the glass before leading him back to where their things are still sitting under their barstools.

"So what'd I win?" she asks, digging around in her formidable bag for a few moments before pulling out a cigarette. The Doctor frowns, thinks about how that little white stick will alter her taste, and resolves to make sure she doesn't smoke it. He pulls some notes out of his back pocket, checks to make sure they cover their tab (or what he assumes their tab is) and drops them on the bar. She looks relieved at that and slings her bag over her shoulder, ready to follow him out into the night.

"Sorry?" he asks, taking her hand as they wave to Jack and walk out into the alley. There are a handful of other drinkers outside smoking and he leads her away from them or the door and towards the street, towards taxis, towards his home and his bed, he hopes.

"We wagered but we never said what we were wagering," she snickers. "Got a little ahead of ourselves there, but I still won. So what'd I win?"

She's being coy and he decides to match her, affecting an innocent look. "Drinks?"

"No way, you were going to pay for those anyway, I could tell. 'S gotta be something better than that."

"Chips?"  
  
"We've already done that, too." She stops walking, tugs him in close when he stops too. "C'mon, Doctor, what's my prize?"

She's got her back to the alley wall, the unlit cigarette still dangling in one hand and her other fingers tucked into his waistband again. The scent of her is intoxicating, like flowers and kitchens and lager and a hundred other things he cannot name without much closer inspection. He moves in so their hips are pressed together, brings his hands onto her waist. She's waiting for an answer but he's forgotten every word in every language so instead he leans down and kisses her.

The feeling of his lips on hers shoots through him as sharp and vivid as if that night on his sofa was yesterday, her knees at his hips and her skin bare under his hands and mouth. He thinks she drops the cigarette because he doesn't feel it when her hands plunge into his hair and tug. Then he stops thinking altogether, his world narrowed down to her mouth and her breath and the way she tastes.

Her teeth scrape against his lower lip and then both their mouths are open, tongues dipping and tasting and swirling as they fight for dominance. Somehow he forces his hands to stop clutching at her hips and actually _do_ something, sliding one to clutch her arse and the other to pull on her thigh until she raises one leg and hooks it around his hip. With this new leverage he rocks into her and a groan escapes them both. She draws his tongue into her mouth, sucking lightly and he can't help but thrust against her a few times, his cock already straining to bypass the barriers of their clothing. From the way she lifts her hips in return, she seems to have much the same thought.

When the need for air becomes absolutely crucial they break apart, panting and wide-eyed.

"Rose," he manages, ignoring how rough and unsteady he sounds. "What do you want your prize to be?"

"Breakfast," she says after a moment, using her arms around his neck and her hands in his hair to keep him close to her. Her breath puffs against his lips when she talks, and he shivers, but it take a moment for her words to penetrate the thick cloud of lust around his head.

"Sorry, what?"

"I want you to take me home," she say, "and in the morning I want you to make me breakfast."

"Home your home, or home my home?" He is afraid to ask, but he has to.

She lifts her chin enough to catch his lower lip with her teeth again, tugging gently. He groans and kisses her again, but she ends it after just a few seconds.

"Which one's closer?"

*** 

They've only ridden in taxicabs twice together, but he thinks they're going to be blacklisted from all of them very, very soon.

This time it's the Doctor who can't keep his hands or mouth to himself, his hands skimming up and down her thighs as he tries to kiss her mouth but she turns her head, affecting modesty, so he kisses her jaw, her neck, her collarbone instead. She giggles, perfunctorily protesting with words while scooting closer and closer until she is almost on his lap in a near replica of their last date and if he could just get her out of her clothes he'd be more than happy to have her right there, driver bedamned.  But this driver isn't as magnanimous, or perhaps just oblivious, as the last one and so he kicks them out three blocks from the Doctor's flat with a string of expletives.

Rose thinks it's hilarious, laughs as he drags her down the street at a light jog, dodging other pedestrians presumably on their way home. Her hand is warm and slightly sweaty in his and he wonders if the rest of her skin will also be damp and how it will taste. Her hair sticks to her cheek as she whips her head around to look behind them and then back at him.

"Eager, are we?" she calls and he just pulls her faster.

She's panting by the time they reach his door, even though it's only two blocks, and she wraps her arms around his waist and leans against his back to catch her breath as he fumbles with the lock.

"Blimey," she manages and he can feel her breath through his shirt. "You're in much better shape than me."

"Oh I dunno," he replies, grinning into the darkness of his flat and reaching back with one hand until he can reach her arse. He gives it a firm pat. "You're a rather nice shape."

"Nice?" she stays close behind him as he scampers up the stairs, holding onto his hips. "Just _nice_?"

"Welllll," he drawls, pushing open the door to his living room and turning to take her hands and pull her in behind him. He gives her an exaggerated wink and a click of his tongue. "I'll need to take a closer look to say for sure."

She laughs at that, a bright, musical tinkle in the dark of his home. The air is heavy; warm and humid with early summer air drifting in from half-open windows. Beyond the glass he can hear cars and people in the street and from just across the courtyard the muffled drums and synths from a house party. White moonlight and yellow streetlight slice across the floor and furniture, practically glowing in the otherwise pitch dark. He reaches for the light switch but Rose intercepts his hand, pulling him towards her as she steps back further into the room and tugs his lips back down to hers.

His arms wrap around her easily, fingers tapping along her ribs like he's playing a xylophone before sliding down to pull her hips in tight against his. His erection presses against her belly, softer above her waistband and just hinting at the softness hiding under her clothes. Her hips move back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm that he can't quite focus on thanks to the onslaught of her mouth on his. After a few moments of long, wet kisses he realizes she is dancing to the music drifting in on the night air.

"Rose Tyler," he says against her mouth, says her name because the ways she delights him are far too big to name in any other way. He matches his hips with hers, the rhythm barely too fast to be erotic but just the right tempo for joy. They smile against each other's lips, Roses hands ruffling through his hair once, and then they're laughing and she's pulling away. The Doctor takes in her smile, dips down to trace his tongue along her jaw and neck, pausing here and there to nip and suck, feeling her fingers tighten in his hair and scrape against his scalp every time he finds a particularly good spot. She giggles and moans, guiding him with sounds as opposed to touch, hips still moving in time to the music.

"Doctor," she sighs after a few minutes and then tugs his head up with one hand while pulling on the shoulder of his shirt with the other. "Off, off, take it off…"

He doesn't need to be told twice, lets her go to undo the buttons and shuck it as quickly as possible. He keeps his eyes on her as he does, watches as she pulls her t-shirt up over her head and reaches behind her to unclasp her bra. It falls away in the moment his vest is over his eyes and he just barely keeps himself from pulling an annoyed face.

But, really, there's very little to be annoyed with because the song has changed to something even more upbeat and she's still dancing and her breasts are bouncing and he can't tear his eyes away.

That makes her laugh again and it sends shivers of want down his spine. He wants to make Rose Tyler laugh like that at least once an hour, every hour, for the rest of his life. He wants to make her giggle and snicker, squeak and moan, and he reaches out and draws her forward to do just that. She thinks he's going in for a kiss and he gets a squeak on the first try when he dips and takes the tip of one breast into his mouth instead.

"Oh," she breathes, holding his head to her as he swirls his tongue around her nipple. She arches into him and he presses one hand into her back between her shoulder blades to hold her steady as the other hand dips down and into her jeans. His fingers slide over her knickers until he has a good handful of her bum and then he squeezes. She moans a little at that, lifting her hips and her chest at the same time, trying to get closer. He chuckles darkly around her flesh then switches to her other breast, laving that nipple into a stiff peak to match. She's making encouraging noises that they only get more urgent as he moves his hand around to her front, popping the button of her jeans open easily before dipping inside both the denim and her knickers and towards hot, slick flesh.

That draws a louder _oh_ from her, and he feels a tremble echo in her thighs. He pushes past the thatch of curls quickly, finding swollen wetness easily. A surge of male pride and pure lust shoots through him from fingertips to cock as he rubs her clit lightly. Her thighs tremble again and her fingernails dig into his shoulders as her legs go slightly rubbery. He separates his mouth from her breast with a loud smacking sound and stands fully, watching her under heavy eyelids as he moves his fingers faster.

"D-Doctor," she stutters, hips bucking in time with his swirling fingertips. "Oh, fuck."

"Mmmm," he hums, pausing to slide his first two fingers into her. It's awkward and restrictive with her jeans still on but her cheeks have flushed bright pink and her eyes are glassy with pleasure and he is not about to stop for anything. Carefully, with his thumb firmly on her clit, he moves his fingers in and out of her, building his rhythm at the same pace as her panting. He can feel her arms shaking with the effort of keeping herself balanced against him and standing on legs that are more and more like jelly with every stroke of his hand.

Her breaths are heavy and loud, tapering to soft moans and squeaks at first and then slowly resolving into words – _oh_ and _yes_ and _fuck_ , _fuck_ , _fuck_ over and over again. She tips her head forward, resting her forehead on his collarbone and he can feel her brow furrowing against her skin as pants become pleas: fuck me, oh Doctor, fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_.

She doesn't get louder, just suddenly stiffens and clenches around his fingers. He keeps his hand still inside her and shifts his other arm to get a firmer grip on her waist as her orgasm rolls through her and when she relaxes he carefully withdraws. Slowly her fingers unclench on his shoulders, her grip relaxing to something more languid, and in the sudden respite he realizes he is breathing as hard and loudly as Rose.

She lets out a soft, breathy giggle against the base of his neck, chasing the puff of air with the tip of her nose and then her lips as one of her hands traces down his bare shoulder to his chest, exploring his skin. It sends gooseflesh across his torso as she licks his collarbone and traces one fingertip lightly around a newly pebbled nipple. As the tip of her tongue begins to explore the tendons at the base of his neck he carefully slides his fingers out of her and slowly raises them to his lips.

He watches her watch him lick her wetness from them, her grin widening slowly as he does.

She reaches up, cups his face, and draws him down for a deep kiss, tongue plunging fearlessly into his mouth to taste herself on his tongue. One hand leaves his cheek and smoothes across his erection instead, cupping the bulge in his trousers and squeezing gently once, twice. He groans and bucks into her touch.

"Doctor," she says against his lips, squeezing firmer, " _fuck me_."

Somehow they haven't moved more than a foot from just inside his door which means the bedroom is, unfortunately, no closer than when they first arrived. His cock throbs in his pants, practically begging him to obey her directive as quickly as possible, but he's not willing to stop kissing her, not even for a moment, and so he tugs on her thighs until she gets the idea and jumps up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he grips her bum to hold her weight. He dashes to his bedroom as quickly as he can without relinquishing her mouth or bashing them both into a wall, countertop, or piece of furniture.

She pulls back to gasp for breath and watch over his shoulder as he bumps his bedroom door open with his bum. The room isn't terribly tidy but it's enough for him not to feel embarrassed, though he doesn't let her gaze linger, turns them around instead and drops her onto the bed. That draws another laugh from her as she quickly unzips her jeans and stands to shimmy out of them and her knickers. He does the same, unbuttoning his trousers and shoving them and his pants down to his ankles, where they catch on his shoes.

Bloody _shoes._ Who invented shoes, anyway?

It's not until Rose barks out a sharper, brighter giggle that he realizes he's said it aloud. She's also naked from the waist down and hopping as she tries to pull her shoes and socks off as fast as possible.

It's not graceful but it's over quick and then they're standing in the space next to his bed, naked and panting and flushed and grinning at each other like idiots.

"Come here," Rose says after a beat and extends her hand to him, and he pounces. He maneuvers them so her head is on his pillow and he's cradled between her thighs, the head of his cock just barely brushing against her cunt as she reaches between them to stroke him. He groans at the heat of her hand around his cock, strains not to thrust as she squeezes and pets. His head feels light and fizzy, like the cork of a champagne bottle that's about to pop, and he manages to stop sucking on her shoulder long enough to reach over to his night table and fumble around until he feels the sharp corner of a foil packet. He rears up, holding the condom up in one of the moonbeams triumphantly.

Rose watches him roll it on, then slides her calves up his thighs as he settles on top of her again. He braces himself on one forearm, his other hand poised to guide himself into her, and brushes her hair from her damp cheek as he pauses. Their eyes meet, matching smiles spread across their faces.

"All right?" he asks in a voice gone rough with wanting.

"Brilliant," she answers and he sinks into her then, slowly to allow her to get used to him. She's slick and hot, so hot, almost unbearably so. He feels her relax by degrees as she lets out a great, relieved sigh and runs her hands up and down his chest. He shifts his arms, gripping her left leg just under the knee and leaning down to brush a kiss over her swollen lips as he starts to move.

The feel of her is like nothing he's ever felt before, not just inside but under and around him as well. Her back arches, nipples brushing against his chest while her hands slide around and settle on his bum. She squeezes in time with his long, leisurely thrusts, encouraging him deeper. She digs the heel of her right foot into the bed, using the scant leverage to lift her hips up to meet him every time he pushes into her. And with every thrust she lets out little sounds of encouragement and delight, nonsense words and curse words and affirmations and his name, over and over again like a mantra. Her eyes slip shut and she throws her head back but he forces his to remain open, to watch her as the pleasure builds in her blood and dewy sweat gathers on her skin.

He feels the heat radiating from her skin and smells the heady scent of their sex growing thick in the air and it's like he's looking out at them both through a thick fog. His orgasm gathers quickly, building at the base of his spine like a static electric shock just waiting to zap through him. He tries to slow down, tries to find a way to distract himself but Rose won't let him. Instead she clutches his arse harder with one hand and uses the other to drag his head down so her lips are at his ear.

"Come," she whispers harshly, "Oh, come for me Doctor, please, I want you to come."

"F- _fuck_ ," he breathes out on a ragged breath, her words sending a hiccup through his body and the electricity in his veins begins to crackle and spread. "Fuck, oh Rose, Rose, Rose—"

And as if he's summoned some magical force to bend the universe to his will, she abruptly twists her hips underneath him and does. She shudders and clenches around him, pulsing in time with a series of soft, helpless whimpers and he's done for. He manages a handful of frantic thrusts more and then he's grimacing and groaning, lost to everything but pure sensation as he empties himself inside her.

The world goes a bit dim for a minute and when he comes back to himself, Rose's legs are locked around his waist and her fingertips are tracing patterns on his damp skin as he catches his breath in the crook of her neck.

His body feels boneless and weak but he manages to lift his head and look at her, taking in her equally languid grin, flushed cheeks, and hazy stare. Her mouth is swollen, maybe even bruised, by their kisses and his certainly feels the same but he brushes his lips across hers a couple times anyway. She responds with soft little pecks neither of them quiet willing to stop kissing and touching even if they don't really have the energy for it anymore.

The air has cooled or maybe it's just the sweat but he can't hold back a shiver and that spurs them both to action. She unlocks her ankles and he rolls off her, disposing of the condom in the bin beside his nightstand and reaching for a mostly-full glass of water next to the clock. It's from the night before and probably a little dusty, but he doesn't care; he's parched. He takes a few long draughts before turning over and handing it to Rose, who takes it gratefully and finishes it. He puts the empty glass back on the table and helps her work the duvet out from under them.

They shift and shimmy for a few minutes, adjusting sheets and themselves beneath them, and the Doctor finds himself simultaneously sated and nervous. He tries to think of something to say but comes up empty, every phrase or question sounding either too needy or too odd in his head. He's saved from having to say anything when Rose flips over onto her side and snuggles back into him, an invitation to spoon he takes instantly, spreading his hand out across the flat of her stomach until his index finger just brushes the underside of her breast.

"That was fun," she says in a soft, voice. "Let's do that more often."

Then she falls asleep.

***

The Doctor wakes, feeling heavy and swollen and warm, so very, very warm. It's disorienting, the dim light in the room and the warm skin pressed against his, so atypical for him for so long now. He shifts under the covers, stretching his legs and then his arms, and it's not until the body next to his makes a soft, unhappy noise that everything clicks into place.

With his arms still raised above his head he looks down at the mop of tangled blonde hair to his right that partially obscures a still-sleeping face and a nose just centimeters from his armpit. Rose has one hand splayed on his chest but the rest of her is curled up into a ball. He carefully lowers his arms, hoping he doesn't disturb her, but it's no use; she frowns and shifts. Thankfully, she shifts closer to him, not away.

"No," she mumbles into his chest as she nuzzles his ribs with her nose. "Sleepin'."

"So sleep," he replies softly.

"Kay," she agrees. His bladder throbs and his mouth tastes salty and foul, so he carefully slides away from her, but her arms shoots out, catching the other side of his ribcage and limply trying to hold him in place.

"No," she says again. "Sleepin'. Stay."

He chuckles and moves away anyway, knowing she's not nearly awake enough to properly protest. As he expected, her arm flops down onto his mattress as he sits up.

He pads to the bathroom and takes care of his bladder first, then his teeth. The minty toothpaste and water are godsends and he spends a few moments bent over the tap, sipping from his cupped hands.

After a moment's consideration and a peek out the bathroom door he turns on the shower as hot as he can bear and hops under the spray. He doesn't want to dally, doesn't want to be rude, but he's pretty sure Rose is still well asleep. Keeping his head out from under the spray he quickly washes, the steam clearing his head as the soap removes the gritty residue of sweat and sex. Along with the slight throbbing in his head, it's the remains of whiskey and sex – things he's missed far too much to admit aloud.

He's in and out of the shower in minutes, he's sure of it, but when he opens the door with a towel around his waist, Rose is on her side in his bed watching him with clear eyes. She's got the covers pulled up to her neck; there's a cool morning breeze drifting through his entire flat.

"You got up," she accuses softly, her expression dangerously neutral. He pauses halfway to his dresser, intending to put on fresh pants, and changes course, bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders as he leans down.

"Mea culpa," he whispers and bends to kiss her, but she turns her head away and his lips meet his cheek.

"Sorry," she says before his feelings can be too hurt, "it tastes like something died in my mouth."

He chuckles and kisses her cheek again, exaggerated and loud, then gestures to the bathroom.

"Be my guest. There's an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet."

She hops out bed and scurries to the loo quickly in the cool air, but he still gets a nice view of her rear as she goes. He changes into a fresh pair of pants and pulls on a pair of cotton pajama bottoms over them, considering staying shirtless until a stronger gust of wind makes him shiver. Slipping on a t-shirt, he crosses to close the window and realizes the sky is gray, threatening rain. Perhaps it's not as early as he thought.

When the shower turns on again he pads out to the rest of the flat, intending to put the kettle on for tea and remembering halfway there his promise to her the night before, or rather the prize she demanded in exchange for beating him in darts: breakfast. He owes her breakfast.

He wonders if it's cheating to have _her_ for breakfast.

He puts the kettle on then steps to the middle of his kitchen to survey his options. He knows he has eggs in the fridge, has a half-eaten baguette slowly going stale on the countertop, pantry ingredients for waffles, or even just simple crusty bread for toast. He could make her the most delicate omelet she's ever had (even with a hangover, ta), or homemade hollandaise sauce dripping over poached eggs. He can do _anything_ ; he's the Doctor, after all. And yet he stands there frozen, every option too much and not enough.

He's still thinking when arms wrap around his waist from behind.

She's done that a few times now, he thinks as he turns in her arms, and he really quite likes it. He could get used to it.

She's looking up at him, wearing a pair of his boxer briefs, one of his vests, and a hoodie he recognizes as the one that had been crumpled on the floor by the bed. Her hair is damp, her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, and there is an enormous hickey on her neck, right above her collarbone. His eyes fixate on that and he grins hugely. It only takes her a second to catch on and then she rolls her eyes.

"Good morning to you too," she says, and he just grins wider before leaning down to kiss her slowly, thoroughly. She kisses him back with a soft sigh, winding arms around his neck as he slides his hands over her hips to pull her closely. His lips feel exquisitely sensitive and the feel of her mouth against his is more than enough to start him stirring in his pants. It takes some time for them to separate fully, each of them giving in the urge for one last peck until finally the kettle whistles and they're forced to part.

She keeps one hand on him at the juncture of hip and lower back as he gets out mugs and teabags, moving with him like they've done this for years. He half-marvels at it as he fixes their mugs.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Just milk please," she says, letting him go and stepping out of his way, leaning against the edge of the island. "So what's for breakfast? I'm ready to collect."

"Hungry?"

"Starving." At his smirk she swats him on the bicep.

"What do you want?"

"Oh what _do_ I want," she says with a grin, accepting the proffered milk and pouring a touch into her tea before handing it back. She crosses one arm under her breasts, rests her elbow on it and taps her mouth with one finger as she looks up at the ceiling. "I've got a Michelin-starred chef at my disposal. I could have anything, couldn't I?"

"Is that a challenge?"

She ignores him and taps her finger against her lips a few more times. "I want… French toast."

He grins, taking a sip of tea before turning back to the refrigerator to fetch milk and eggs.

"And to think, I was going to suggest having you for breakfast."

She laughs and takes her tea with her to his sofa. "Nah, I'm more of a mid-morning snack."

"You don't say. Brilliant, I always get a bit peckish just before noon."

She laughs a little louder and then the telly clicks on. They trade barbs about the news as he cooks, making fun of the odd human-interest pieces that dominate the weekend morning broadcast.  He brings their plates over to the sofa and she sits very close to him as they eat, declaring his French toast fantastic and him fantastic as well.

It's almost surreal, how easy and natural it all is, how it feels like he's always cooked her breakfast and she's always teased him about his weakness for funny pet videos; how it feels like she's always curled into his side as they look for a trashy movie or show and he's always joked about her freezing cold toes. 

It is later than he thought thanks to the overcast day and she has to leave for work far too soon, but he still makes her his early-afternoon snack.


End file.
